


Wish I'd Never Gone

by thepinupchemist



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha Brock Rumlow, Alpha Natasha Romanov, Alpha Sam Wilson, Alpha Steve, Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha Thor, Alpha Valkyrie, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Animal Instincts, Bearded Steve Rogers, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family, Family Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Knotting, M/M, Male Lactation, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Mpreg, Mutual Pining, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Bucky Barnes, Omega Clint Barton, Omega Tony Stark, Omegaverse, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Pregnant Bucky Barnes, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Switching, Unplanned Pregnancy, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, for a hot second - Freeform, i think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-06-07 22:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 72,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15229299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepinupchemist/pseuds/thepinupchemist
Summary: Over a year has passed since Steve last saw his best friend Bucky, until late one Friday evening, when Bucky shows up at Steve's doorstep, beaten to hell and reeking of fear.After seven positive pregnancy tests, Bucky knows he has to leave Brock -- who cost Bucky his entire support system and all his friends. He can only hope that Steve will take pity on him and give him a place to crash.In the end, Steve gives him much more.A story of two friends who never realized the most important person was next to them all along.





	1. Wish I'd Never Gone

****Chapter One** **

****Chapter Track: San Cristóbal – Mal Blum** **

_****Wish I’d Never Gone** ** _

Steve Rogers didn’t want for much. His design job at Stark Industries paid for a two-bedroom apartment in Flatbush, which was nicer than any place he’d lived as a kid or college student. His mother teased him about the sleek wood floors and crisp paint job, especially in comparison to his collection of roadside-rescued furniture and kitschy knickknacks. She could laugh, but he knew she loved visiting him, and he knew that she loved the guest bedroom he made up just for her, decorated with the only family heirlooms that didn’t live in their old brownstone with her.

Natasha and Sam visited, Steve dogsat for Clint, Thor arrived unannounced with beer and cards, and the teenagers across the way, Wanda and Pietro, filtered through on the regular to raid Steve’s fridge for leftovers.

Most nights, Steve wasn’t alone. He drafted designs for the developers and tech team, packed up and rode the subway for over an hour, and welcomed his friends in the evenings.

Tonight, however, he called off all his plans and settled in for some time to himself. He cooked some classic spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, settled into his favorite chair, and threw Stranger Things onto the television for a rewatch while he sketched absently. He basked in the smell of supper and the sight of the city outside his windows, while the background noise of an eighties music soundtrack tickled at the edges of Steve’s focus.

All in all, it was a perfect night, until somebody slammed their fist against his door.

The desperate knocking threw Steve from his happy-zone. This was no gentle, steady knock of a food delivery person, nor was it the rhythmic knock of Sam or the teasing fall of fists that meant Wanda or Pietro wanted to see what scraps Steve had yet to eat.

The sound echoed through the open floor of his apartment, frenzied noise, something one expected to hear at a manor door in the dead of a winter night, not on a hot and humid Friday evening.

Steve set aside his sketchbook and yanked open the door.

The panic and terror of a frightened omega hit his nose first, instants before he processed what he saw.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

His best friend.

After Bucky got into a passionate, hot-burning relationship with some guy named Brock, he slipped away. He stopped answering Steve’s texts and never picked up his calls. He didn’t post on Facebook except to write posts praising his alpha, with seflies attached. Bucky’s family knew about as much as Steve did. They hadn’t spoken in a year and a half.

Bucky’s dark hair hung limp with sweat around his face, where a reddish-purple bruise blackened his eye and spread across the left side of his face. He didn’t have his prosthetic, just a backpack slung over his good shoulder.

“Hey, Steve,” he said.

Wordless, Steve stepped back from the door and gestured for Bucky to come in with a wide sweep of his hand.

Bucky flinched.

With a lump lodged in his throat, Steve _knew_.

Despite the step he’d taken away from Steve, Bucky hustled inside. He put his backpack on the floor beside the kitchen table and collapsed in one of the chairs, as comfortable as he’d been inside Steve’s place before he vanished like smoke from Steve’s life. The red shirt adhered to his chest with sweat moved up and down with his breath, hard and heavy like he’d been running.

“Um,” Steve started, “Are you okay?”

Bucky blinked at him and didn’t respond.

“Right,” Steve went on, “That was a stupid question. Let me rephrase: What can I do to help?”

A long breath escaped Bucky’s lungs, as though relieved, and he scrubbed his hand over his face. He winced when his fingers met tender skin, and jerked back. He asked, “You want to help?”

Steve searched Bucky’s busted face. He didn’t think he should have to explain anything to the guy he’d grown up with, the one whose side he’d always been on, but something about all this was very wrong. He grabbed at the back of his neck and said, “Well, yeah. You’re my best friend, Buck.”

“Still?” Bucky asked, voice small.

“Of course,” replied Steve, “You never stopped being my friend.”

When Bucky lowered his gaze to his feet, Steve floundered. He could gauge some of this situation, but what he could do was limited. He mussed his hair in the awkward silence that stretched between them. The “why did you stop talking to me” died on the back of his tongue when he glanced again at the black eye, and Steve knew the answer already: _because he wouldn’t let me_.

“You want some dinner?” suggested Steve, and his eyes flicked to the backpack Bucky set on the floor. “You could put your stuff in the guest room. Maybe some coffee?”

Bucky lifted his face and stared back at Steve. He licked his lips and said, “I can’t.”

“Can’t...have coffee?” Steve ventured.

Bucky scratched his hand through his lank hair. The scared stench that had retreated returned with a vengeance, omega fear filling the kitchen in a great cloud. Bucky didn’t break eye contact, just said, “I’m pregnant, Steve.”

“What?”

“Pregnant. You know, with a baby?”

“Brock’s?” was all that Steve managed.

A hoarse laugh escaped Bucky. It was a cruel sound, and a shiver rolled down Steve’s spine upon hearing it. Bucky shook his head. He answered, “Yeah. He, uh, he didn’t take it well.” He waved at the mottled skin of his face. “I packed up what I could and I came here. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I’m glad you came,” Steve said, adamant.

Bucky nodded, then looked off to the middle-distance. He heaved another breath and asked, “So –- um. It’s okay if I stay?”

“Of course,” Steve said, “The guest room is all yours. I made spaghetti, you know, if you’re hungry.”

“I think I just wanna shower,” murmured Bucky.

“Oh! Yeah, go ahead,” Steve said, and lifted his arm toward the bathroom he knew Bucky already knew was there.

Bucky nodded a second time. He picked his backpack up off the floor and carried it with him to the bathroom. Steve tracked his movement as he went. When the bathroom door closed, he sat down in the chair still warm from Bucky’s body heat. He considered texting Sam or his mom, but neither seemed appropriate. Bucky’s story was not Steve’s to tell.

He tried to focus on what he could do in the present. His alpha instinct said PROTECT, PROTECT, PROTECT, but at the forefront of Steve’s mind was what Bucky needed in this moment. The shower, primarily, to get the grit of sweat and fear and Brock from his skin, and sleep, most likely. Steve preferred that Bucky eat a meal, too, but he understood being too weary to eat.

Spurred on by his desire to help by whatever means necessary, Steve stalked through the guest room and tidied the rough edges. He put away the drafting supplies he’d dumped on the bed and tucked clutter away. He emptied the trashcan beside his desk, and straightened the covers on the bed.

By the time that Bucky turned the corner, Steve was ripping the top off a fresh box of tissues and placing them next to the lamp on the bedside table. With only a towel slung over Bucky’s waist, Steve examined the rest of him, cataloguing additional bruises up the same side as his black eye, and an angry red handprint on Bucky’s arm, like he’d been held down.

“Stop staring at me,” snarled Bucky.

Steve held his hands up in defense. He said, “I’m sorry. I just – I want to make sure that you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky said.

Steve cast him an uncertain look.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Bucky insisted, but after a beat of hesitation, he added, “I’m fine now that I’m here. Okay? I know I’m not in danger with you.”

The alpha in Steve bloomed under the positive attention. The greatest compliment an omega could give Steve was assure him they knew they were safe with him. His size often intimidated people, mostly omegas, no matter what he did. Knowing that even after all the time between their last meeting that Bucky still put that trust in him – that fed Steve’s needs in a way that almost embarrassed him.

And...after whatever happened to Bucky...that trust meant more than Steve cared to consider right now.

Bucky crinkled his nose at the scent of pleased alpha, held up his hand, and said, “Don’t let it get to your head, big guy,” and then, after a moment, “Thank you. I wasn’t sure I had a place to go.”

Ardent, Steve told him, “No matter what, Buck, you can always come to me.”

**

Exhausted, Bucky tugged on one of the few ensembles he managed to stuff in his bag before Brock came back to their apartment, a pair of threadbare sweatpants and a gray t-shirt that was regrettably Brock’s. He collapsed back onto Steve’s guest bed with a sigh, taking in the room.

Last time that Bucky saw this bedroom, boxes of Steve’s stuff lined the walls, yet to be unpacked. He suspected that Sarah Rogers had blown through since then and made sure that her son wasn’t living in a cluttered mess of a home.

Now, the guest bedroom looked multipurpose, packed with art supplies and a drafting desk on one side, and a beaten dresser and vanity on the other. Family photos and small heirlooms he recognized from Steve’s childhood home lent the space a cozy, lived-in air. The contrast between this place and his and Brock’s sterile, modern apartment struck Bucky. He never noticed that their apartment didn’t quite feel like home. It was always something a little to the left of home, a place designed for his alpha boyfriend and not for him.

That didn’t matter anymore. Now he was here.

Bucky hadn’t known whether or not Steve would let him in or shut the door in his face.

After a couple months of being with Brock, he’d asked Bucky to stop talking to other alphas. They fought about it, because alpha or not, Steve was and always would be Bucky’s best friend in the whole world. They met on the first day of second grade, after Bucky’s family moved from Indiana to Brooklyn for his mom’s job, and were inseparable from then on.

Until Brock.

After they fought, inexplicable guilt washed through Bucky. He didn’t stop communicating with Steve immediately, but texted less. He never went out when Steve invited him to drinks or a movie night in. Then, he stopped having things to say to Steve. _Hey Steve, today my alpha boyfriend hit me. He said he was sorry, though. He brought me flowers and we had makeup sex so it’s all good._

As Bucky rode the subway toward Steve’s apartment, the anxiety bubbled under his skin. If Steve hated him, he wouldn’t blame him. He deserved it. He ignored his friends for over a year and disconnected from his entire support system. He treated them like shit, and for what? A shitty, abusive boyfriend that said, word for word, that he would kill Bucky if he didn’t abort the cluster of alien cells inside him.

Bucky was and always had been a huge proponent of choice for omegas, and his choice, to his surprise, was that he wanted to keep the itty bitty fetus that had only been with him for a matter of weeks. He couldn’t describe why the little bean mattered to him, but they did. His hand drifted to the flat plane of his stomach at the thought, resting over the promise of a child.

He hadn’t known what to expect from Steve tonight, didn’t know whether he’d get far enough to tell Steve about the pregnancy or not.

Steve’s reaction, a scenario he’d had plenty of time to play out in his head while he sat quietly on the subway and tried not to look at the people surrounding him, lacked the yelling he envisioned. In truth, Bucky couldn’t decide whether he found reality lackluster or not. All Steve did was ask if the baby was a product of stupid fucking Brock and said he was glad Bucky came to him.

He had stared at the bruises, though Bucky didn’t blame him. After he called Steve out on gawking, Steve reddened and stammered and apologized in that earnest way he always had about him, so unlike the posturing typical to alphas as a whole. Of course, Steve spent his youth small and weak and sick, so he knew a thing or two about being looked down on for his biology.

Another, lesser man might have changed his tune when puberty turned him into a brick shithouse, but being a big dude made Steve kinder. Sure, he got into scraps and was suspended from school more than once as a teenager, but he always fought for the right reasons.

And here Bucky was, on the end of Steve’s charity. Before Brock, he might have taken the offer of a place to stay as a facet of their friendship, but now, Bucky could only qualify this as something Steve did because he felt sorry for him.

With a long sigh, Bucky rolled to his right side, before he remembered that was the side that Brock’s blows landed on. He whined at the shock of pain in his bruised body, and flipped back to curl his arm beneath his pillow. He wished for a moment that he had his prosthetic, but he didn’t know where Brock had put it and didn’t want to risk his chance of escape by hunting for it. Expensive tech it may have been, but he didn’t value it over his life or the spark of life nesting in him.

There, tucked into a ball beneath the covers of Steve’s guest bed, Bucky fell asleep.

For the first time in a long time, he was safe.

**

The need to vomit tore Bucky from his bed and into the bathroom, where he heaved bile and the nothing that was in his stomach. For several minutes, he rested his cheek against the toilet seat, dazed and nauseated. Dizzily, he registered he was not in the bathroom he was familiar with, but the bathroom that belonged to Steve.

The previous night whirled through his mind. He’d kept the pregnancy secret from Brock for several weeks, unsure how to broach the subject. In the end, Brock’s temper and an overturned wastebasket undid his secret, as seven positive pregnancy tests skittered across the kitchen floor.

Brock lost his shit. He screamed and called Bucky names – _whore_ and _slut_ and _stupid omega –_ and then beat the shit out of him. Bucky redirected the blows up, away from his abdomen. When Brock ripped away from him, satisfied with what he’d done, and stormed out the front door with keys in hand, Bucky scrambled to pack a bag and bolt.

He didn’t know where he was going to go until his body took him to the subway and he stepped onto the line that would take him to Steve’s neighborhood.

And he was here.

A knock at the bathroom door rattled Bucky out of his brain.

“Yeah?” he hoarsely said.

Steve’s soft voice came out all gentle on the other side of the door, nothing like he knew alphas to be. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Bucky groaned. He peeled his cheek off of the toilet seat and ran his fingers back through his hair. “Just morning sickness,” he answered, “I’ll be out in a second.”

True to his word, he waited only a beat before he stumbled out to the body of Steve’s apartment, where Steve had arranged breakfast on a small kitchen table. He set two places, each plate loaded with pancakes and bacon and eggs. The smell of coffee wafted through the air, but when Bucky sat down, the mug alongside his plate was coffee-free.

Bucky sniffed at the liquid and asked, “What’s this?”

“Ginger tea,” Steve said, “Might help with nausea. I was reading about it at the grocery store and -”

“When did you go to the grocery store?”

“This morning,” answered Steve, “after my run.”

“Jesus,” muttered Bucky.

Steve, in return, gave him that stupid, hopeful alpha look, the one they make when they’re trying to take care of you and they want you to tell them that they’ve done a good job. Bucky’d gotten them from his mother and his sister Becca and Steve, but never from Brock. He didn’t realize how much he could appreciate a single facial expression.

One half of his mouth quirked up as affection welled in his chest. “Thanks, Steve. Everything, um. All of this - it means a lot.”

The aroma of pleased alpha curled from Steve’s skin in waves. The scent intoxicated Bucky, welcoming and long-forgotten as it was.

Without another word, Steve took his seat across from Bucky and tucked into his breakfast. They ate in comfortable silence. Bucky hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the first bite of pancake passed his lips, and then he ate ravenously. He cleared his plate and washed down the meal with the ginger tea.

After, Bucky chewed his lip and considered how to ask Steve for a little more help. If not, he could always call his folks. Becca still lived in New York, but his parents and littler sisters returned to Indiana around six months ago, if the Facebook posts were anything to go by.

Steve grabbed Bucky’s empty plate and asked, “What’s on your mind?”

Bucky hit the place his lip had split with the edge of one tooth and stopped chewing. He breathed through his nostrils and stated, “I haven’t been to the doctor yet.”

“Do you know how far along you are?” asked Steve.

Bucky shrugged and answered, “I don’t know. Six weeks, maybe? I guess you have to have a doctor to tell you for sure. I didn’t want Brock to see the charge on the card, so I just...didn’t go.”

A pained, constipated expression crossed Steve’s face, but whatever he was thinking, he didn’t say. Instead, he scratched at the beard ( _beard_! Since when did Steve grow out his beard?) on his jaw and hummed some noncommittal noise.

The silence unfurled between them. Then, Steve offered, “I can take you. Do you have to make an appointment? I don’t actually know how any of this works.”

Somehow both surprised and unsurprised at once, Bucky said, “I mean – yeah. Okay. That would be great. You know. If you did that.”

He knew Steve, and he hoped Steve would help, but something in him wasn’t quite right anymore. In the short span of a year, Brock crumbled Bucky’s resolve. The innate self-confidence he strutted with all but vanished, leaving timidity in its wake. He became a person he didn’t recognize anymore, no longer muscled and tanned from runs in the park and frequent gym visits. He was thin and waifish, tailored by Brock to be what a desirable omega was meant to be. He was supposed to be weak, to be helpless without an alpha, and Brock made it so.

Now, Bucky needed the intervention of another alpha whether he liked it or not, because Brock made certain that he would have no one else. Brock probably believed that Steve would reject Bucky too, because Brock believed everyone to be just as spiteful as he was.

Not Steve, though. Never Steve.

Even now, he stared across the table with eager-to-help eyes. His scent eked out of every corner of the apartment, making it smell truly lived-in. This was Steve’s territory, his domain, but it didn’t reek of being scent-marked to the gills. Brock rubbed his scent all over every piece of furniture in their place like an animal. If anything smelled like Bucky, he snuffed it out. He covered the omega scent with his own. He claimed Bucky smelled too sweet.

Steve’s scent reminded Bucky of home, of childhood. Once puberty settled in and Steve got huge, his scent stabilized to something inherently alpha, spicy, like licorice root, but tempered by a rain-soaked soil sort of earthiness. Safe, the aroma said, this was safe.

Bucky didn’t know about any of the other friends he’d left behind. Maybe they would be mad, or maybe they’d be like Steve. Maybe they would want to help. Being with Steve unearthed old trust in the inherent good of most people, but that trust was a bud in the shadow of Bucky’s confused, broken mind.

He knew he was troubled, knew his reflex and frightened subconscious were wrong, but Bucky couldn’t stop them. Brock carved ugly pathways in his mind that his psyche couldn’t help but follow.

Bucky was scared.

With a palm over his abdomen, he hoped he could at least be brave enough for this baby.


	2. If You're Not Feeling Right

**Chapter Two**

**Chapter Track: Daniel’s Song – The Finches**

**_If You’re Not Feeling Right_ **

After several days of Bucky ignoring his calls and texts, Brock shut off service to Bucky’s phone on their shared account.

“Oh,” Bucky said, when he realized it happened.

Steve had just come home from work and showered. In pajamas, he settled into a well-worn, large armchair adjacent to Bucky’s nest-slash-perch on the living room couch.

“What’s that?” Steve asked, tearing his attention from the bowl of reheated Chinese food in his lap.

“Brock stopped my cell service,” he said.

Bucky didn’t expect Steve’s silent rage to stink up the room, but maybe he should have. Historically, Steve got spitting mad at every injustice in the world, and Bucky had smelled his wrath many times before. The drop of dread in the pit of his belly, though – that was new. Warning bells screamed in his brain to run to his room and barricade the door. He did what he could to delay the inevitable, to stave Brock off as long as he could.

Shame settled alongside dread. He knew, logically, this alpha was his best friend.

“Shit,” Steve said, and whether that was a reaction to the cellphone or what fear-scent surely was filling the room, Bucky couldn’t say.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve continued, and clarified, “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at – at the situation.”

“I know that,” Bucky replied, “Logically. It’s...something I can’t control. Not anymore. I don’t know. I’m trying.”

The constipated face Steve adopted several times in the week and a half of Bucky’s stay made a return. Bucky didn’t like the face. He preferred it to pity, but he knew whatever gears turned in Steve’s head behind that face were barely-restrained thoughts that Bucky definitely didn’t want to hear.

“I’ll get you a new phone,” Steve promised.

“Steve, no,” Bucky said, “That’s too much. I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering,” replied Steve, “In fact. Here.” He reached into his pocket and tossed Bucky a phone – his phone. The model was top-of-the-line, if old, Stark tech, nothing that Bucky would be able to access on his own but a perk of Steve’s job.

“That’s my personal phone. I want you to have it tomorrow, in case you need anything. I’ll get something set up with work so you can have your own.”

“What about you?”

“Oh, I’ll be fine. I have my work phone.”

“But,” Bucky said, a million protests whirling through his head. Something in the back of his brain said that he would owe Steve for this, and he already owed too much to him already. He knew that Steve didn’t think of his friends in terms of debts, he did, but Steve’d done so much for Bucky already it was hard not to feel like he needed to be giving back in some capacity.

Steve’s shoulders crept closer to his ears, the way they did when he was gearing up for an argument. The rage had been carefully scaled back and the scent retreated, but Steve’s grasp on his anger always was tenuous.

Steve inhaled deeply. He said, “I don’t want you to be disconnected from the world, even for a day. It makes me feel like I’m trapping you here and I don’t like it.”

Bucky didn’t know what to say to that. The statement was so polarized from the last year of his life that his mind didn’t compute. He managed, “You’re not trapping me here,” because it was the only thing that he could think to say.

“You haven’t left this apartment since you got here, Buck,” Steve pointed out.

Okay. That much was true.

“It’s not because of you. It’s...” Bucky trailed off, but found his voice and finished, “It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid.”

“Whatever it is, it’s not stupid.”

“You don’t know that,” Bucky argued.

Steve didn’t take the bait. “Then explain it to me,” he simply replied.

Bucky would rather eat pineapple on pizza than explain to Steve that he’d rather hide in a safe apartment than risk seeing Brock, but he swallowed the inclination to flee. Steve deserved, if nothing else, the justification of Bucky’s erratic behavior.

“I’m just worried that I’ll see him somewhere,” Bucky said, thinking of how his body still ached with bruises that had yet to heal, “I know he lives in a different part of the city. I know he doesn’t know where I am. But I know he’s smart. He can _guess_ where I am.”

“That’s definitely not stupid,” Steve replied, “and you don’t have to leave if you don’t want. But please take the phone. If not for your peace of mind, then for mine. Please.”

“Okay,” Bucky conceded, and the discussion ended there.

For the rest of the night, Bucky futzed with Steve’s phone, playing with the high-tech camera and the dopey filters. He thumbed through Steve’s phone games (about a billion word games and a handful of indie creations with gorgeous art) and played a few.

The novelty of the phone didn’t wear off even after they both called it a night. With his comforter tucked around his shoulders, he continued to fumble with it in the dark of the guest bedroom.

Until a text came through at the top of the screen and blocked part of his Word Crossy level.

 

**[10:32 PM]** **Becca Barnes** : How is he?

 

Bucky’s breath stuttered in his lungs. Steve was talking to Becca?

Though Becca was Bucky’s twin, she was an alpha, and Brock included her among the people that he didn’t want Bucky communicating with. He monitored Bucky’s texts and his Facebook instant messages. All Bucky heard of his sister in the last year were comments on his innocuous Facebook posts, on pictures of food he’d made, mostly. She never liked or commented on the selfies of him with Brock.

Unable to help himself, Bucky scrolled up through the text conversation his sister was having with Steve. He swiped to when they started talking about him, the morning after his arrival at Steve’s doorstep like a mangled stray.

 

**June 16, 2018**

**[7:18 AM]** **Steve Rogers:** Hey. Just so you know. Bucky’s at my apartment.

**[7:19 AM]** **Becca Barnes:** WHAT

**[7:19 AM]** **Becca Barnes:** ???!!?!?!

**[7:19 AM] Becca Barnes:** Should I come over?????

**[7:21 AM]** **Steve Rogers** : No.

**[7:21 AM]** **Steve Rogers** : He’s not ready for that.

**[7:21 AM]** **Becca Barnes:** Is he okay????

**[7:22 AM]** **Steve Rogers** : Not really.

**[7:22 AM]** **Steve Rogers** : Don’t freak out.

**[7:22 AM]** **Becca Barnes:** TOO LATE??

**[7:23 AM]** **Steve Rogers** : He’s not okay but he IS safe. I think he’s leaving Brock for good, but don’t quote me on that. It’s up to Bucky whether or not he wants to share what’s going on, not me. I just wanted you to know that he’s here.

**[7:23 AM]** **Becca Barnes** : You’ll keep me posted?

**[7:24 AM] Steve Rogers:** Of course.

 

**June 17, 2018**

**[12:57 PM] Steve Rogers:** Doing better today.

**[1:02 PM] Becca Barnes:** I told mom he’s with you. I hope that’s okay.

**[1:04 PM] Steve Rogers:** As long as she doesn’t get on a plane and show up here, we’re fine. I mean it when I say I don’t think he’s ready to talk to anyone. He barely talks to me.

 

Bucky frowned at that, but when he reflected on the past week and a half, Steve was right. Bucky used to chatter a lot more, and Steve would listen (or he’d argue, but that was Steve for you). Brock didn’t want to hear about Bucky’s day or where he’d found his recipe or even what stupid cat videos he’d looked at.

Gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles whitened, Bucky considered his sister’s texts with Steve. The rest followed the same theme of asking about him, and Steve answering with vague updates that amounted to “he’s still here and he’s alive.”

Bucky appreciated Steve’s commitment to Bucky’s right to himself.

He also thought Becca probably deserved to know more.

Bucky stared at the text screen for a long time, nibbling on his lip as he mulled over what to say.

 

**[10:37 PM] Steve Rogers:** hey, it’s me

 

Anticlimactic, maybe, but anything more groundbreaking he’d have to say in person.

 

**[10:37 PM] Becca Barnes:** Bucky?

**[10:38 PM] Steve Rogers:** steve gave me his personal phone

**[10:38 PM] Steve Rogers** : for a day

**[10:38 PM] Steve Rogers:** brock took mine off our plan

**[10:38 PM] Steve Rogers:** steve says he’s gonna get me a new one

**[10:39 PM] Steve Rogers:** anyway

**[10:39 PM] Steve Rogers:** hi, i’m okay

**[10:39 PM] Steve Rogers:** relatively speaking

**[10:40 PM] Steve Rogers:** you should probably come over

**[10:40 PM] Steve Rogers** : not now. i mean like tomorrow

**[10:40 PM] Steve Rogers:** there’s some stuff i gotta talk to you about

**[10:40 PM] Becca Barnes:** I’ll be there at noon.

**

Bucky didn’t know what to wear to see his sister for the first time in a year. Sweatpants and a t-shirt seemed to suggest that he was less okay than he claimed. He’d rather look like he had his shit together, but when he crept into Steve’s bedroom to try on his clothes, the jeans slid halfway down his skinny ass.

In the end, Bucky wore the sweatpants and t-shirt when he answered the door, heart beating faster as he found his twin sister blinking back at him. As one might expect, he and Becca shared many similarities, gender and presentation aside. Each with a dimpled chin, straight nose, gray eyes, and thick, dark brown hair, they couldn’t be mistaken for anything but siblings. Alpha female and omega male twins weren’t common, but they also weren’t unheard of.

“Can I hug you?” Becca asked.

Rather than respond, Bucky hauled her in with his arm for a tight embrace.

“No offense,” Becca said, as they parted and Bucky closed the door behind her, “but you smell funny.”

“Yeah,” Bucky stalled, but couldn’t think of any excuse fast enough and said, “I’m pregnant, so. There’s your funny smell.”

“ _WHAT_?” Becca yelled.

Bucky flinched.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, and held up her hands, “How long have you known?”

Bucky fidgeted. “A while,” he answered, “Brock found out and that didn’t go so good. And so I came here. Now you’re caught up.”

“Have you been to the doctor?” she asked.

“My appointment’s in two days,” Bucky replied.

Becca laced her fingers together and rested them against her lips. She exhaled, contemplative, and said, “You’re gonna need to tell Mom eventually, you know.”

Bucky groaned. “Yeah, I know,” he said, “but I haven’t figured out how I’m gonna do it yet. The last time we talked was a fucking disaster, and she was right, and she’ll want me to say that she was right, and honestly? I can’t – I can’t do that, Becs. I can’t take it right now. I know she was right, but...”

“I get it,” Becca told him, and rested her hand on his left shoulder. She traced around his stump with her thumb, never one to shy away from touching him just because he’d been blown up in Iraq. Brock didn’t touch it; he wouldn’t even look at it. He hated Bucky’s prosthetic and told him it was ugly. Said Bucky was lucky that an alpha wanted him at all.

And God, Bucky believed him. He believed Brock so long he couldn’t imagine stopping now. Steve and Becca would tell him otherwise, but some kernel of self-hatred might always exist inside him. He didn’t know. Maybe one day he’d stop feeling broken.

The worst part about being so broken now was that Bucky spent countless hours building himself back up after being discharged. Years passed before he could take a selfie again and be happy with the person he saw in the picture. Nightmares still crept up on him from time to time, but he’d worked so hard to undo the stress on his brain.

Brock broke down every milestone Bucky had made. Who he was in this moment was strikingly similar to who he’d been when he made it out of the hospital, one limb down, haunted and unable to sleep for more than an hour at a time.

“Is there anything I can do?” asked Becca.

Bucky shook his head. Then shrugged. Then, he conceded, “Be here?”

“Always,” Becca swore.

With a more watery smile that Bucky cared to admit to, he asked, “Anyway, what are you up to?”

Grad school, it turned out. Becca was working toward a Master’s degree in Library Sciences. Her passion for libraries overflowed in the way she spoke, and for the first time in days, Bucky relaxed. He wasn’t under the interrogation lamp. He could sit and listen to his sister talk about her life, the way that he used to.

She skipped class to be with him.

“I love you,” Bucky told her, when Becca took a breath.

“I love you too,” Becca replied, “and I’m glad you’re here.”

**

Steve came to Human Resources with his hands wrapped nervously around the strap of his leather messenger bag. He didn’t know how an unmated omega fell under their phone plans at Stark Industries. He knew that a mate, if he had one, would be allowed a phone, and so would any children of his.

Tony Stark, for all that the media smeared him, provided well for his employees.

At the front desk, Maria Hill laser-focused on her computer screen. Her eyes flicked to Steve for a beat, but she finished whatever she was typing before she turned her attention back to him.

“Steve Rogers,” she drawled, “What brings you to HR this morning?”

Steve clutched at the back of his neck. He said, “I had a question about our StarkPhone policy. I- I got a friend, an omega, living with me. Under my care. His ex cut off his cell service. I wondered if he qualified for one of our phones.”

“Hm,” was all that Maria uttered. She tilted her head and said, “I’ve never been asked that before. Let me make a call. Have a seat over by the potted plant.”

Steve obeyed, holding his hands in his lap and awkwardly watching the rest of the Human Resources division of Stark Industries buzz with activity. Business casual-adorned interns ran reports to and fro, a woman in a pink blazer battled with the printer, and Maria leaned back in her rolling chair, phone up against her ear.

If his phone plan with work didn’t pan out, Steve would have to stop at a cell carrier and set up a new account with somebody. He didn’t particularly want to spend his evening waiting around in a Verizon store, but for Bucky, he’d do it.

No matter what Bucky said, Steve wanted more than anything to ensure Bucky maintained some level of autonomy. Even if he didn’t want to leave Steve’s apartment (except for the doctor’s appointment in two days, which Steve had taken the day off for), he needed to have access to the outside world. He needed to know that he wasn’t alone, and he needed to know that Steve was not the only person in the world that he could rely on.

If his intuition proved right, Brock maneuvered his relationship with Bucky, one small step at a time, so that Bucky became dependent on him for everything. Bucky didn’t talk much about Brock, and Steve didn’t want to pry. Nonetheless, Steve didn’t have to be a genius to infer why this version of Bucky strayed so far from what he was only a little over a year ago.

Thick-thighed and vibrant, Bucky lit up every room with his boisterous laugh and his infectious smile. His eyes crinkled at the corner with lines borne from joy. Even after his army tours and the onset of PTSD, he brought charm wherever he went. Alphas followed him like Bucky was the pied piper of omegas, leading them around by the knot with the scent that Steve had always known to belong to his best friend.

This Bucky...he’d smiled at Steve twice in eleven days. He was rail-fucking-thin, so much so Steve deliberately fed Bucky as much as he could without being obvious. He suspected that Bucky knew but humored Steve anyway. He flinched away from big hand movements and impassioned voices. He didn’t expect or even want to go out.

“Steve?”

He jerked to attention. Maria beckoned him over.

“I discussed the situation with Pepper,” said Maria.

“Potts?!” Steve couldn’t help but exclaim. How did his case warrant a phone call to the CEO of the entire company?

“Yes,” Maria went on, “She says that anyone in an employee’s household is covered by our phone, health insurance, dental insurance, vision insurance, life insurance, and continuing education plans. I called the StarkPhone people downstairs and let them know you’re on your way.”

“Oh. Uh. Wow,” managed Steve. He knew he worked for a good company. He vetted every job he applied for, and Stark’s company, to his surprise, was as ethical as an multi-billion dollar technology conglomerate could be. He didn’t realize the generosity of the company extended this far, though.

“Just say thanks,” Maria told him.

Steve blushed and replied, “Thank you so much, Maria. This means a lot.”

“I just made a phone call,” Maria said, and waved him off.

“It’s more than that to me,” said Steve, which teased a smile to her lips.

**

Steve arrived home to the sound of laughter. Confused, he turned the corner into the living room and found not only Bucky, but Becca, smiling, her chin on top of Bucky’s shoulder as he flipped through pictures on her Facebook profile.

The scent of _happy family_ suffused the room. Steve inhaled and the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile of his own. Some alphas resented the smell of another alpha in their space, even if those alphas were their friends and family, but Becca’s scent always occurred to Steve as a clean, pleasant smell. Sure, the musk of alpha hung under it, but the overtones of her scent were welcoming and familiar. Entwined in her scent was a note of some something that she shared with Bucky, and that alone gained Becca Steve’s trust.

“Hey, guys,” Steve greeted.

“Steve!” Bucky grinned – _grinned –_ and held Becca’s phone up for him to see, “Have you seen the pictures from Becca’s trip to Greece? The buildings are so amazing and she got so tan. It’s crazy. Look.”

Though he’d seen the pictures before, Steve humored Bucky and leaned over so that he could show him his favorites from Becca’s Facebook album.

They chatted like the old friends they were. For a short few minutes, everything felt exactly like it used to. The words flowed easily and the teasing was lighthearted. Bucky even chuckled a little at one of Steve’s puns.

“I brought you something,” said Steve, when the conversation lapsed. He reached into his leather bag and pulled out the box that contained Bucky’s new StarkPhone, complete with a new phone number that Brock wouldn’t have access to.

“Holy shit,” Bucky said, taking the slender box into his hands. He eased the lid from the top and whistled, “Jesus, Stevie! This is a StarkPhone X-One. Aren’t these like, brand new?”

“I guess?” Steve said, “I don’t know anything about the phone models. Employees can upgrade for free anytime a new model comes out, but my phones work just fine, so I’ve never bothered. My phone’s only two years old. That’s not so bad.”

“It’s like, six models ago,” Bucky said, “I mean, don’t get me wrong. Stark builds his phones to last, and it’s way cooler than mine was – but this one,” - he gestured to the new phone in his lap - “this is the holy grail of phones, Steve. These things are like, actual, for real, a thousand dollars. No hyperbole.”

Steve reached out and patted Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky cringed back from the touch. The scent of fear spiked. For a moment, no one spoke. The three of them stared at each other.

Steve stamped down the desire to prove to Bucky he would never hurt him. He knew that wouldn’t make anything better. Instead, he cleared his throat and remarked, “I’m glad you like it. Becs, you wanna stay for dinner?”

Becca brightened and said, “Sure. What are we having?”

“I kinda thought we’d order in,” Steve shrugged, “Anything you’re craving, Buck?”

Bucky blinked between Steve and his sister like he didn’t quite believe they were pretending nothing had happened. He managed, “Uh. Thai?”

“Thai it is,” said Steve, and pulled away from the couch to grab the dog-eared menu for the Thai place four blocks over from the front of his fridge.


	3. Can't Stand to Look Back

**Chapter Three**

**Chapter Track: A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left – Andrew Bird**

**_Can’t Stand To Look Back_ **

 

Bucky flicked through the magazine in his lap and scowled.

“This is terrible,” he said, smacking the offending page of _Cosmopolitan_ to draw Steve’s attention, “Look at this. Read it. This list of sex tips is actually suggesting that I put a slice of fruit in my ass to give my alpha ‘a sweet surprise.’”

“What?” said Steve, “No it doesn’t. Let me see.” He took the magazine from Bucky’s grip and squinted at tip #12, where Bucky tapped the tip of his finger. As he read, his brows rose further and further up on his forehead, where he’d pushed his longish blond hair away from his face.

“I told you so,” Bucky said in response to the look on Steve’s face, a cross between disbelief and disgust.

“But,” Steve said, “Yeast infections?”

“You’re telling me,” Bucky groused, “Are alpha magazines this patronizing?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Steve said, “The only subscriptions I have on my StarkPad are _Art in America_ and _Scientific American_.”

“Dude, you get _Scientific American_? Can I read some?” Bucky bubbled, before he remembered to temper his enthusiasm. He bit down hard on his lower lip and tried to think of something to make himself sound less excited about a science magazine, but Steve didn’t give him the chance.

“Of course, Buck,” Steve said, “I have lots of books and stuff on my StarkPad. There are some scifi stories I bet you’d like. I use it for work sometimes, but not a lot. I can grab it for you when we get back home.”

 _Home_ , Steve said, like the place belonged to both of them already, like Bucky wasn’t intruding in Steve’s territory and living in a borrowed space.

“James Barnes?” a nurse called.

“You want me to wait here or come with?” Steve asked.

Bucky shrugged a shoulder. He said, “I guess...I’d rather you were with me.”

Steve slid the magazine back into the plastic rack on waiting room wall, a vaguely insulted expression still on his face as he stared down the scantily-clad image of Jennifer Lawrence on _Cosmopolitan’_ s cover. They both stood and crossed to join the nurse, who toured them through the back and instructed Bucky to stand on a scale. She frowned when his weight came to a cool one thirty-four, but didn’t comment.

Sure, the missing limb accounted for some of his diminished weight, but Bucky knew his left arm couldn’t have all the credit.

Bucky had to both pee in a cup and get what felt like an entire gallon of blood drawn. When the nurse deposited them into an exam room, she instructed Bucky to change into a gown before she checked his blood pressure, peered into his ears, and listened to his heart. Steve carefully turned his head to the wall while Bucky shimmied out of his belongings and shoved the loose arms of the gown onto his body, and only looked back once Bucky settled into the most comfortable position possible on the exam table.

“The doctor will be in in a moment,” the nurse said with a smile, before she closed the door behind her.

Steve and Bucky stared at each other.

“God, this is awkward,” Bucky said.

“You’ve been with me when I had to go to the hospital plenty of times,” defended Steve.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Yeah, a hospital. Because you were doing something stupid, usually.”

“Or asthma,” Steve argued.

“Yeah, hey, does ‘No, Buck, I’m gonna finish these laps’ ring any bells? Seventh grade? Tiny idiot in over his head in gym class?” Bucky went on, “You were doing something stupid. I rest my case. Anyway, I never watched you get a metal crank thing shoved in your butt, so I think I win for awkward medical visits.”

“A speculum?” Steve suggested, “And I don’t have to sit here.” To prove his point, Steve dragged his chair across the small room and parked it next to the exam table so he stared out in the same direction as Bucky, rather than getting eyeful of whatever would be directly between his spread legs.

Steve went quiet, and Bucky didn’t know how to fill the silence. Eventually, he sighed, and asked, “What am I gonna do, Steve?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said, looking at his hands. He turned to face Bucky again to add, jaw set, “but I know I’ll be with you ‘til the end of the line, jerk.”

“Punk,” muttered Bucky, in lieu of expressing the gratitude that coursed through him. He didn’t know if he had the words to tell Steve what all of this meant to him – the bedroom, the meals, the phone, the doctor’s visit – the depth of Steve’s generosity both humbled and frightened him. He didn’t know how he’d ever repay everything that Steve had done for him.

Even if the VA covered all of Bucky’s expenses here, Steve got him to the building. Steve was here beside him, hands twitching in his lap like he wanted to reach up and touch Bucky. If Steve were Bucky’s mate, he’d grasp his neck in a tender handhold, thumbing over his scent gland to leave a trace of alpha behind. It was supposed to calm an omega.

When Brock tried, if what he did counted as trying, he held Bucky’s throat in a strangling grip and shoved him down. There was no calm in being pinned by your neck.

Below the exam table, Steve’s hand snuck upward again, only for Steve to catch his own movement and stuff both hands between his thighs.

In the end, Bucky compromised and offered his hand, which Steve took and reverently tucked between his own. Steve smelled more of nerves than Bucky did, an impressive feat under the circumstances.

This was how the doctor found them, hands laced together and stinking up the room with their combined uneasiness. The doctor introduced herself as Helen Cho. Though blockers deferred most of her scent, a mild, floral aroma marked her as an omega. Relief swamped him knowing he wouldn’t be touched by a strange alpha. A beta might have been okay, but another omega was ideal.

Over the notes on her clipboard, Dr. Cho said to Steve, “Don’t worry so much. The alphas are always far more worried than their mates.”

“Oh, um, he’s actually my best friend,” Steve stuttered.

Dr. Cho cocked a brow and said in return, “My point still stands. The alpha is always the worrier. Anyway. James, when was your last heat?”

“Uh,” Bucky managed, and ticked back the weeks in his head.

The most recent heat wasn’t the worst that he had had. Brock fucked him like it was a chore, of course, and he did it hard and mean like he always did, shoving Bucky’s face into the pillows until he couldn’t breathe and restraining him so hard that panic welled in his chest even through the heat-fog. At least that time around he’d asked Brock for his help. For more than one heat, Bucky locked his door and shouted at Brock to leave him alone, but the dick would knock down the bedroom door and scream back that Bucky needed him, was an omega whore begging for a knot even as Bucky begged the opposite.

Someone squeezed Bucky’s palm, and he shook the anxiety back as far as he could. He glanced from Dr. Cho’s expectant face to Steve’s concerned one, and answered, “Um. Two months, I think.”

“We’ll do an ultrasound, since you’re not sure,” Dr. Cho told him.

When she instructed Bucky to put his feet in the stirrups, he closed his eyes. Steve squeezed his hand again, and maybe he should have felt more off-kilter with an alpha there clutching his fingers, but Steve radiated that weird protective alpha vibe – and it helped. Knowing that the tension of being at the VA getting trussed up and checked out provoked alpha vigilance out of Steve comforted Bucky.

Just a little.

Bucky couldn’t say what Brock would have done in Steve’s shoes. Brock didn’t want any part of what was happening now. Bucky suspected that if he had he’d embarrass Bucky in every capacity, from criticizing his weight to shouting at medical professionals for touching his omega to bombarding the joint with the stench of his aggression.

After the exam and the ultrasound, Dr. Cho had Bucky sit up. She explained, “Judging by the ultrasound and your estimate, I think you’re about eight weeks along. Your due date will be somewhere around February 4th. I have some concerns about your body weight. You’re a little malnourished, so I’m going to recommend you find some prenatal vitamins and see one of our nutritionists. Aside from that, you’re in good health for a twenty-eight-year-old male omega. Do you have any questions for me?”

Bucky asked about doctor appointments and things like ‘who’s going to deliver my baby’ and generally stumbled his way through several weeks’ worth of worries.

At the end of it, Steve trundled Bucky to a shopping center, where he bought a few new sets of clothes with the ability to stretch and a couple pairs of jeans that would fit for a handful of months before he got too big. Steve insisted he buy them and guilt swam through Bucky at the idea of taking advantage of Steve. Their bickering was old and familiar, as comforting as it was annoying.

After clothes shopping, they drove to one of those hipster grocery stores near Steve’s apartment, where they purchased vitamins and the materials for a well-rounded dinner.

“If you don’t eat leafy greens,” Steve lectured, once they were home, “Your baby’s gonna come out looking funny. I read that somewhere.”

“Is ‘looking funny’ a technical term, or…?”

“You’re hilarious,” Steve drawled, deadpan.

The normalcy of the routine bothered Bucky. That he picked up right where he and Steve left off, as though a year a half of radio silence between them never happened, didn’t feel right. The other shoe was going to drop – he was sure that it had to. He didn’t get to just have this. He didn’t deserve peace and he would never deserve peace.

Someday, Steve would yell and be angry.

For now, Steve was giving him everything.

Bucky ate his leafy greens.

**

Sometime in the dead of night, Bucky woke to all-encompassing warmth and the weight of someone wrapped around him. At first, he panicked, but a cursory sniff to the air told him that the offender in question was in fact Steve.

Inexplicably, at (he pried his arm out of Steve’s octopus grip and checked his phone) 3:28 in the morning, Steve was wrapped around his back like a gigantic, alpha koala. He smelled neutral, contented, and the breeze of his breath rustled Bucky’s hair.

Bucky needed to pee.

“Steve,” he murmured, and shoved at him with his now-free hand.

Steve grunted and snuffled, but didn’t wake. Instead, he rubbed his face between Bucky’s shoulder blades and tightened his grip. Were Bucky’s bladder not a player in this game, he might have let this behavior fly. He might have rolled his eyes and gone back to sleep.

But such was not the case.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky said, with a little more force, “Stevie. You punk-ass alpha, wake the fuck up.”

“Nooo,” whined Steve. He did the face-rubbing thing again.

“I need to pee and you’re crushing me, you dumb fucker,” Bucky complained.

Something, perhaps the sharpness in his tone, stirred Steve so that he extricated his body only enough to rub his eyes and groan again. He narrowed his gaze at the dark, scoping the room, until he landed on Bucky. Bucky could only imagine his face right now, but he knew one brow was lifting high enough to feel a stretch.

“...Bucky?”

“Uh, yeah,” he said, “What are you doing in here?”

“I don’t...I don’t know?” Steve managed.

“You don’t know,” Bucky repeated.

Steve furrowed his brow, frowning, and pulled all the way back from Bucky, sitting up on the bed. He scrubbed his face with the heel of his hand and mussed his hair. “Maybe I sleepwalked?” guessed Steve, “I’m...I went to bed in my bed. I don’t know how I got here.”

“Well. Okay. As fun as this has been, I need to take a whiz.”

But when Bucky returned, Steve hadn’t moved from the other side of the bed and was scratching absently at his beard. A crinkle remained between his brows, his confusion palpable even in the unlit expanse of the guest bedroom. Bucky’s bedroom? He hesitated to call it that.

“Why are you still here?” he asked.

Steve made a face and sleepily asked, “Should I be moving?” then concluded, “Right. Sorry. This was weird. I’ll, uh, go back to my room,” while clutching at the back of his neck. He slid out of the bed and padded to the door. There, he paused. His fingers curled around the frame, and he added, “Goodnight, Buck.”

“Night, Steve.”

**

Steve heard his alarm, but from a distance, piercing through a haze far deeper than usual. He scrunched up his face in annoyance and snuffled, only to get a nose full of pregnant omega scent. It was potent, though Bucky didn’t smell like any other omega did. His scent wasn’t too sweet or floral, but clean and smooth, a powerful blend of pine sap and wildflower, now underlaid with something like baking bread.

Wait.

Why the fuck was he smelling Bucky?

Steve yanked his face up from his bed, only to find that the bed he was in did not belong to him. He was, as he’d found himself at three in the morning last night, attached to Bucky’s back like a barnacle.

“What the fuck,” he muttered.

With more reluctance than he cared to admit, Steve eased away from Bucky’s sleeping form.

How did he get back in here? He must have sleepwalked; it was the only explanation. _Why_ was a more pertinent question. As Steve retreated to his bedroom to dress for work (and to silence the alarm from the phone he’d set on his bedside table), he contemplated the last several days. He wondered if perhaps he might be approaching his rut – his rut was and always had been irregular and unpredictable. His only warning signs tended to be irritability, poorly-timed erections, and his stomach turning into a vast, unfillable chasm. He didn’t know how being close to rut differed when living with a pregnant omega.

For a brief, panicked moment, Steve realized Bucky would wake up smothered in alpha scent – specifically that belonging to him. Maybe Bucky would write it off as belonging to the three AM incident, but Steve doubted it. Bucky was shrewd and discerning, always had been. Steve didn’t think that their time apart put a dent in Bucky’s eye for detail.

He’d wake swaddled in Steve’s scent, and Steve didn’t know how he’d take it. Bucky mentioned off-handedly that he liked that Steve didn’t scent-mark the apartment but instead let his existence inside it do the marking of his territory. Scent-marking – essentially rubbing all over something or someone – was not done lightly.

Steve had done it in his sleep.

If he was right in his assumptions, Brock had done it to everything.

Brock overrode every ounce of Bucky’s sense of self, and rage bubbled under Steve’s skin at the idea of it. Steve wanted to allow the guest room to be Bucky’s realm, content in the gentle cloud of omega that lived in the walls and sheets. To know Bucky owned some of his world again settled a fury that churned in Steve like a building hurricane.

But apparently his subconscious had other ideas.

Steve didn’t let on to Bucky that his anger at Brock saturated his entire mind and body. He could strangle Brock for what he’d done to his best friend. He hoped he never laid eyes on Brock again, because Steve didn’t know what he would do to the bastard if he did.

Steve’s body was capable of so much more strength than he chose to employ. After he presented and he erupted into a mountain of muscle, he only once made the mistake of using his fists to solve a problem.

Back in high school – over ten years ago, now - some bully, a guy named something-or-other Hodge, growled at a cluster of betas and omegas to scare them, for the sole purpose of exercising power. He was a medium-sized alpha, the kind of alpha far larger than Steve in their freshman year of high school but dwarfed by Steve by their senior year.

A mix of teenage hormones and righteous anger spurred Steve into action. He snapped at Hodge to leave the other kids alone. In return, Hodge mocked him, and Steve broke open like a firework. He tackled Hodge to the ground and beat his face to purple.

In the end, neither Hodge’s injuries nor fear of Steve nor the two-week suspension from school taught Steve to contain his strength. What filled him with shame was the scent of fear that followed him in the hallways, how omega and beta students split from each other and cleared a path for him to walk.

The only omegas that associated with him after that were Bucky and Peggy, both spitfires in their own right. Bucky stuck to Steve like glue. He made sure to touch and hug Steve to mark him as safe. Peggy similarly worked to show the other students the content of Steve’s character, but nothing worked.

Despite the best efforts of his friends, Steve graduated high school a feared alpha.

After that, Steve never again used the power that made him an alpha. He learned to curb his anger, to make his body smaller, and to speak softly.

Against everything he learned from the incident, Brock ignited Steve’s hatred like none other. He’d never felt more feral than he did at the mention of Rumlow. He tamped the anger down for Bucky’s sake, funneled his fury into his workouts and kept it behind a careful wall within the confines of the apartment. For Bucky, he buried his alpha instinct, but he knew he’d come undone in the face of Brock.

That dick better pray that he and Steve never crossed paths, because if they did – well.

Suffice it to say that Steve didn’t give a shit how many people became afraid of him if he found Brock Rumlow.

Steve forced his breath to slow and tucked his button-down into the waistband of his slacks. He tied the laces of his shoes into neat bows and slung his leather bag over his shoulder, but checked on Bucky before he left. He guided the door to the guest bedroom open with his knuckles. Bucky had rolled over, curled into himself on his left side in the middle of the bed, where Steve had woken that morning.

Heart in his throat, Steve closed the door with a soft click and headed out to the Flatbush Avenue station to commute to work.

There, he stopped at the lobby coffee shop. Darcy, his favorite barista, greeted him with a grin and punched in his usual order of a four-shot Americano. With a bounce of her brows, she said, “You smell like you had a nice night.”

“Do I?” Steve lifted his sleeve to give it an inspection sniff. Sure enough, the scent of Bucky leaked through his own aroma. “Damn it,” he said, and explained, “My best friend is staying with me right now. He needed a place to crash after his ex found out he’s pregnant. I sleepwalked twice last night and wrapped around him like an octopus. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.”

“That alpha instinct is a hell of a thing,” Darcy remarked from behind the espresso machine.

“Alpha instinct?” echoed Steve.

“You know, that protective stuff,” Darcy went on with a wave of her hand, “Did you just find out he’s knocked up, or what?”

Steve paused. “We already knew. But I guess I _did_ just take him in for his first doctor’s appointment.”

“Ah, yeah. Bet reality finally set in and the ol’ instinct machine kicked into gear.” Darcy scrutinized Steve as she passed him his Americano. She asked, “Did you not even consider that? You know, for being so smart, you sure are dumb sometimes.”

“Hey!” complained Steve.

Darcy winked, but then her expression turned more pensive. She said, “Steve? I hope your friend is doing okay.”

A sad little smile played across his lips as Steve answered, “We’re working on it.”

The Americano fortified Steve as he rode the elevator, an always-unpleasant experience. Even with the state of the art filtration systems, small spaces plus several people always ended in an uncomfortable bouquet of smells.

When the elevator reached the Drafting, Design, and Development floor, he left the crush of people, relieved. Everything today seemed to be setting off his nerves. Scott at the front desk lifted his hand in greeting, but all Steve could manage in return was a brusque nod.

“Steve!” boomed Thor, when Steve turned the corner to his office.

Thor, the only alpha Steve had come across in the entirety of Stark Tower that was larger than him, had immigrated from Australia, where his mythology-enthused parents still lived with his siblings. While Steve handled concept art and sometimes drafting, Thor built prototypes and brought Steve’s pictures to life.

Steve must have had some off-kilter look on his face, because Thor frowned and asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’m trying,” said Steve, “Got a lot going on.”

“Need company tonight? Perhaps some beer?” offered Thor.

“Wish I could, but -” Steve paused, surveying the grid of cubicles, and jerked his head toward the privacy of his office. There, he collapsed into one of the chairs, dragged his hands over his face, and admitted, “I’m not sure I can have another alpha in the apartment right now.”

Thor said, “Ah, I understand. Your rut’s soon?”

Steve laughed. “If only it were that simple,” he replied, “but it’s not. My best friend, you know – Bucky. He left his ex and showed up on my doorstep and he’s, um, not himself. He’s been through hell and back and he’s pregnant and I think I might be the only alpha that doesn’t scare him right now other than his sister.”

“Well, hell,” Thor said, “Is there anything I can do to help, my friend?”

Steve shook his head. He stood again, dumping his bag onto the floor, and said, “I appreciate the offer, but I think this is up to me and him. Letting it out helped, though, so – thanks.”

“I would gladly listen anytime you need it,” Thor told him, “I may not understand, but...”

Thor was one of the only people that Steve knew to be in an alpha/alpha relationship. He and his mate Val had blessed Steve’s apartment with alcohol and laughter many times. He wished that they could again now, but didn’t know what Bucky needed or was okay with.

“Thanks, Thor,” he ended up saying, “Knowing that helps already.”

**

When Steve stumbled his way into the apartment and saw Bucky cozied up on the couch, he didn’t bother to greet him before he announced, “I think it might be, like, an alpha thing.”

“An alpha thing?” Bucky said, turning from the magazine article open on Steve’s StarkPad, “What’s an alpha thing?”

“You know, that thing where you want to protect your pack,” Steve said, “Like the animal brain thing? Your human brain knows that showing up in your best friend’s bedroom to cuddle is kind of fucking weird, but your animal brain is like ‘hurr hurr pregnant omega, must protect.’ That thing?”

“I’m not familiar with that feeling,” Bucky replied dryly, “but I’ll take your word for it.”

“Anyway,” Steve sighed, and his heart ached at the conclusion he’d come to, “I don’t think I can control it, so, I guess, lock your door? I’m sorry for rubbing my scent all over you.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky answered, “It’s not like you did it on purpose. But sure – if it makes you feel better, I’ll lock my door.”

Steve’s hindbrain _hated_ the idea that his human brain concocted on the train ride home, but he knew it was the right thing to do. Bucky needed an alpha he could trust, needed a space of his own, and needed to be left the fuck alone.

If Steve couldn’t do that while he was asleep, he’d have his conscious self take care of it.

Fuck his dumbass alpha instinct.


	4. Won't Let You Break

**Chapter Four**

**Chapter Track: Future Mixtape for the Art Kids - Beach Slang**

**_Won't Let You Break_ **

 

On Saturday morning, Bucky woke blissfully alone. There was no Brock with his back to Bucky on the other side of the bed, ignoring him for whatever sin Bucky committed the night before. The lingering stench of his nightmares didn’t surround him, because he hadn’t had any. Light streamed in through the window, and though the view was on the other side of the apartment – Bucky’s window led to an eyeful of the brick of the parallel complex – contentment settled in.

Until his belly went off-script and his dinner threatened its way to his throat, anyway.

Bucky leapt from the covers of the bed, unlocked the door, and threw it open.

The door didn’t open.

He tried again, and then again, but with a _thunk_ , the door banged against an obstacle every time.

Panic welling, Bucky yelled, “Uh, Steve?!”

A muffled series of smacks and thuds sounded on the other side of the door. It fell open, and Bucky tumbled into the hallway to see Steve on the floor with a horrendous case of bedhead and a sleepy, puzzled look on his face. Rather than pause to assess the situation, Bucky listened to the lurch in his stomach and hoofed it to the bathroom, where he just made it just in time to hurl into the sink.

Steve appeared behind him, breathless and befuddled, and asked, “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Bucky moaned, and vomited again into the sink. He squeezed his eyes closed for a second and then asked, “What the fuck was that? Why couldn’t I get out of my room? What did you do?”

Sheepish, Steve ruffled his hair, messing it up even more than he’d had it before. He kept it longer than he had before Bucky met Brock, long enough to run his fingers through and slick back. Right now, he looked like a confused, bearded porcupine.

“Um,” Steve stalled, and lowered his gaze to the ground, “That was me.”

“The fuck?” Bucky got out, before he threw up again. He rested his forehead on the lip of the counter and tried to count his breath. In the mirror, Steve’s reflection oozed exasperation and embarrassment. “What the fuck,” Bucky said, “were you doing outside my door?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Steve bristled, red in the face, almost as red as when he’d asked out Peggy in high school, “I went to sleep in my bed. Next thing I know, you’re yelling at me.”

“Oh my god,” Bucky groaned. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, turned on the faucet, and splashed cool water on his face. His stomach still didn’t feel quite right, but Dr. Cho assured Bucky that was normal. And, because the universe was a cruel and impartial mistress, lasted typically fourteen more weeks.

“I’m really sorry,” Steve said, pulling at the hem of his t-shirt looking all guilty and forlorn with his stupid doe eyes, “I can try locking my bedroom door too. I can’t be that sophisticated when I’m sleepwalking, right? Do you think I could undo my lock in my sleep?”

“You know what?” Bucky said, reaching for his toothbrush, “I have officially decided I don’t care. Nobody’s locking their door. All you’re doing is cuddling me. If it makes your hindbrain happy, fine.”

“I don’t want to smother you,” Steve said.

Bucky rolled his eyes, spreading toothpaste across the bristles of the brush. Before he stuck it in his mouth, he said, “Look, Steve. You and I both know we’ve cuddled plenty in our lives. I’m not going to be traumatized by my best friend snuggling me because his alpha brain thinks he needs to be attached to me at night. This is a non-issue. Starting tonight, we share a bed, and you stop looking at me like I told you we’re not allowed to have a kitten.”

To put an end to the conversation, Bucky put his toothbrush in his mouth, aggressively brushed, and waved Steve out of the bathroom.

Once the taste of artificial cinnamon replaced the tang of bile, he spat and rinsed and joined Steve in the living room-kitchen area. Steve stood punching the buttons on his coffee maker with prejudice.

“That coffee pot insult your mother or somethin’?” asked Bucky.

“I’m just mad,” Steve said.

Bucky tried not to react, because Steve being mad wasn’t the same thing as Brock being mad, not by a longshot. Despite knowing Steve for most of his life, the last year rerouted his brain to fear any sign of anger, even neutrality – somebody neutral still had the potential for anger. Only happy alpha settled the tsunami of fear that sucked up the tide and threatened to crash at the slightest hint of displeasure.

Steve stewed in his frustrated scent as he prepared breakfast, none-the-wiser to Bucky’s quiet anxiety until he glanced over and said, “Are omelets – oh, Buck.”

“It just. Feels. Like you’re mad at _me_ ,” Bucky ground out, a feat in light of his omega instincts telling him to run as fast as he could to protect himself and his little one.

“I’m mad at myself,” explained Steve, “I’m mad that I’m not giving you enough space and I’m mad that somehow, despite my best efforts, I’m just a stupid alpha doing stupid stuff because I’m stupid.”

Just when Bucky thinks Steve has wound down from his emotional onslaught, he gears right up again and continues, “ _And_ now I’m mad that I’m ranting about all this because you have enough on your plate already without adding ‘Steve’s emotional labor’ to the list.”

Bucky pursed his lips. Steve deflated under his gaze. He broke eye contact with Bucky and pressed his open palms to the kitchen cabinets, resting his head between them. Tension drew up every line of Steve’s body.

“Okay,” Bucky slowly answered, drawing out the word, “As much as I appreciate your enlightened omegist speech, I’m not doing your emotional labor. Or, if I am, we’re doing it for each other, which is how friendship works, Steve.”

Steve pulled away from the cabinets looking pained. “It feels like I’m not doing enough for you,” he said.

“How much more could you possibly do?” asked Bucky, “You’ve given me place to stay. You’ve been feeding me non-stop – yes, I noticed. You replaced my clothes and my phone. You even took me to my doctor’s appointment. You didn’t have to do any of that shit. So what else is there to do?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said, flopping down onto a kitchen chair, “but whatever it is, I should be doing it.”

“Dude,” Bucky replied, “I know this is a tall order for you, but chill.”

The coffee maker beeped and Steve stood again. He flitted around the kitchen like a pissed-off hummingbird, throwing open the fridge and the cupboards to start in on omelets. He flicked on his electric kettle and brewed the ginger tea again, sliding it across the table alongside prenatal and nutritionist-recommended vitamins. Bucky dutifully downed them and prayed that his guts would play nice for the rest of the day.

When Steve sat down with their food, Bucky ate pensively, the past two weeks bobbing in his mind like a buoy in the sea.

“It’s got extra cheese, if that’s what you were wondering,” Steve told him.

Bucky blinked out of his trance, which apparently had been directed toward his omelet. Steve remembering how he liked his omelets aside, Bucky said, “You know, I’ve been wondering – where are all your friends?”

“My friends?”

Bucky confirmed, “Yeah, your friends. It’s been two weeks and the only person that’s visited is Becca. You love having people over, so what’s the deal?”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” said Steve.

“Since when did I say that other people in the apartment made me uncomfortable?” asked Bucky. Steve opened his mouth to respond, but Bucky stopped him with a jab of his fork in the air and a curt, “See, Steve, it’s this shit that I hate. You didn’t ask me whether or not I was okay with people here; you assumed I wasn’t. I know I’m a little fucked up, but you could at least goddamn ask me about these things.”

Steve closed his mouth, opened it again, and closed it. He furrowed his brow and picked at his breakfast.

Should Bucky have said anything at all? Jesus, he almost yelled. He almost raised his voice at an alpha. This pregnancy shit was already making him do dumbass stuff. He squeezed out a soft, “I’m sorry, I just -”

“No, you’re right,” Steve admitted, “I made a decision on your behalf, and I shouldn’t have. That was shitty of me.”

Bucky did not know what to do with an apology. He couldn’t remember the last time that he argued with an alpha and got an apology out of it. In two weeks, Steve had said sorry for many things, not limited to the series of snuggling incidents in the last couple of days, but this was the first time they’d had a real disagreement.

“Are you...” Steve said, and trailed off before he found his voice again. He asked, “Can I make it up to you?”

Make it up to him?

“Sure,” Bucky found himself saying, “Invite some friends over tonight. We’ll watch movies or something.”

“Are you sure?” Steve asked.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Bucky snipped, but then sighed. He went with reassuring for his next tactic: “Steve, I don’t want to disrupt your whole life. You’re giving me so much already. Give yourself something too, okay? You can’t carry the whole world on your shoulders. I feel like I’ve lectured you about this a thousand times already.”

“You have,” Steve replied, with a hesitant smile. He agreed, “All right. We’ll have some friends over tonight. Why don’t you pick the movie?”

**

At six in evening, Steve surrendered in his attempt to scrub the apartment spotless. He bleached some of the oldest Steve-smells out of the mustiest crevices of the joint and plugged scent-neutralizers into the wall to make the space more inviting.

Bucky, humiliatingly, found that he preferred living in Steve’s smell than out of it. He attributed the predilection for that spicy alpha earthiness to the early stages of pregnancy, or maybe pregnancy as a whole. Being ensconced in the scent of a safe alpha pushed all of the right buttons for him. If he were a little more shameless, he’d rub up into the scent where Steve left it most, on his favorite armchair and in his bedroom.

As it stood, Bucky surreptitiously scented when he could, writing off his indulgence as wrapping himself in the warm blankets Sarah Rogers made for her son or investigating whether or not a tight athletic t-shirt was clean.

But Steve liked making his home welcoming to all, and if that meant clearing out the scent of his own territory, then so be it.

At six thirty in the evening, Steve’s friend Sam arrived. Bucky’d never met the guy – Steve introduced Sam as his best friend before he turned bright red, as though having more than one best friend wasn’t allowed.

It did grind Bucky’s gears a little bit, even if he had only himself to blame for Steve acquiring a new best friend. He disappeared out of Steve’s life, so why should he find a new person to be his favorite?

To his chagrin, Sam was a best friend better suited to a big, classically handsome alpha like Steve. Better suited than Bucky, in any case.

Sam and Steve met each other through running in their neighborhood gym, competing with each other on the treadmills and strength equipment – a typical story of two alphas competing for the sport of it. Sam wasn’t quite as stacked as Steve, but few people were. The dark-skinned alpha oozed geniality, and his nostrils didn’t even flare when he shook Bucky’s hand.

Sam held his hand in a firm but gentle grip, nothing like the finger-crushing that Brock did when he’d met Bucky for the first time. Steve had been there. Brock used a cheesy line and bought Bucky a drink and something about him seemed magnetic. What an idiot he’d been.

“It’s nice to finally put a face to the name,” Sam said, “Though I hear you were Army. That’s too bad.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You were in the service?” he asked.

“Air Force,” Sam replied.

“Ew,” said Bucky, and they both laughed a little. The tension bled oiut, and Steve relaxed beside them, looking a little less like his world was ending because his two best friends didn’t like each other.

Sam didn’t smell like a threat. He didn’t hold his body like a threat. Bucky knew that Sam could wreck him if he wanted to, but Sam exuded the air of a person that had seen a lot and channeled his hardship into being better. Bucky wished he could do the same, but he was broken. For now, he directed what positivity he mined from his surroundings toward the health of the clutch of cells in him.

The internet said the baby was the size of a kidney bean, now.

At six forty-five, old friends showed up.

Bucky’s spirits lifted when he peered around Steve’s meaty shoulder to see Clint and his alpha Natasha, two people he used to see a lot more of before he lost his mind and got into his thing with Brock. Clint, despite being an omega, fell into Brock’s not-okay list. He didn’t act like an omega should act, Brock told Bucky. Clint’s arms were big and muscled from archery and a history in the circus, he ate everything like he might never eat again, and more often than not was injured in some capacity because he’d done something stupid. Even now, he wore a brace around one wrist.

Hazards of being a parkour instructor, Bucky assumed.

“Holy shit!” exclaimed Clint, “I thought Steve was yanking my chain. How the fuck are you, Barnes?”

Bucky leveled his hand in the air and wiggled it: _so-so_.

“Yeah, same,” Clint agreed, and placed a stack of pizza boxes on Steve’s kitchen table. He went on, “I ate a few slices on the way here. Hope you guys don’t mind.”

The moment after he set down the boxes, Clint opened his arms to offer Bucky a hug. Bucky went, glad to get a noseful of friendly omega, familiar omega. Prior to the whole Brock debacle, Clint and Bucky hung out on the regular. They played Mario Kart or drank beers and commiserated about being big omegas in a world that chastised them for taking up space.

Natasha (also a parkour instructor; she and Clint met at work and fell in love) placed a couple six-packs of beer next to the pizza boxes and said, “He ate half a pizza, but I planned for him to eat an entire pizza by himself, so we’re in great shape.”

“Any pizza is a personal pizza if you just believe,” Clint said sagely.

Sam greeted Natasha and Clint with hugs as Steve cued up Coraline, Bucky’s movie choice for the evening. As they settled into the couch, Clint threw himself next to Bucky and said, “Dude, I’m so happy to see you. I brought some of the good shit, just for you.” Clint reached into the pocket of his baggy jeans and slapped a Ziploc bag of weed onto Steve’s coffee table, with a small, purple glass pipe.

“Oh, uh,” Bucky said, “I can’t.”

Clint frowned. “Aw. Why not?”

Bucky ran his fingers back through his hair. He should have figured that Steve didn’t tell the entire story, because Steve was trying to be considerate and didn’t think of Bucky’s pregnancy as his story to tell. Unfortunately for Bucky, that left the onus on his shoulders to explain the doozy of a situation he was in.

And since nothing could be easy, Bucky wasn’t far enough into the pregnancy for the smell to be obvious.

So he couldn’t go with what he’d prefer – sticking his wrist under Clint’s nose and telling him to figure it out.

“I’m pregnant!” Bucky blurted.

Again, because nothing could go smoothly for him, he hit an awkward moment of lapsed conversation. His confession resounded through the apartment. All eyes fell on Bucky. He knew Natasha and Clint knew the father of this child was Brock – not that Brock would be allowed _anywhere_ near Bucky’s baby – and Sam likely knew more about Bucky’s sordid history than he cared for a stranger to know.

But nobody reacted. Nothing exploded.

“That’s cool,” Clint said, “I can smoke outside.”

That was anticlimactic.

Natasha looked Bucky up and down. She said, “You look skinny,” and thrust a pizza box at him, “Eat. Babies need food.”

Bucky took the box, but rolled his eyes. He complained, “You alphas and shoving food in my face,” but helped himself to a couple slices of pepperoni and sausage.

Clint packed a bowl on the couch, but peeled away from the warm groove he’d worn in the cushions to smoke outside on Steve’s balcony. Sam flopped over to the opposite end of the sofa, and Steve brought his plate and beer to the floor, where he backed up between Sam’s legs, leaning into his body with the affability of healthy friendship.

A horrible, possessive shiver shook Bucky’s bones at the sight, which was stupid, because Steve _wasn’t his_. They weren’t mates, and even then, a mating shouldn’t be about being each other’s property. Nonetheless, his omega hackles made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Another knock at the door interrupted their settling into place and Bucky’s inner temper tantrum, but since Steve was occupied, Bucky volunteered, “I’ll get up,” and launched himself over the arm of the couch.

The door swung open to reveal two muscular alphas on the doorstep laden with boxed wine and more beer. The bigger of the two, a cheerful-looking blond alpha, grinned wide and said, “You must be Bucky.”

“That’s what they call me,” Bucky said.

“I’m Thor,” the blond alpha introduced, and offered his hand at an amiable distance. Bucky took it, and Thor added, “This is my mate, Val,” at the alpha beside him, a well-built woman in athletic wear that showed off the impressive musculature of her coppery arms. They wore their mating marks on their necks, out and proud - unusual for alphas, even those in same-presentation relationships. 

“Hey,” she said, but she didn’t offer a hand.

“We brought beer and wine,” Thor announced, placing the offerings with the other booze before he lifted a different six pack and said, “and some ginger ale for you, Bucky.”

Bucky glanced back at Steve, who had the good grace to look a little embarrassed by his having told somebody about Bucky’s pregnancy. Bucky found he didn’t mind, and slid a ginger ale out of its paper carrying case. With a tip of the bottle toward Thor, he said, “Thanks, man, I appreciate that.”

Bucky returned to his spot in the corner of the couch, where he nestled with his ginger ale between his knees. When Clint came back, he shimmied into place beside him, smelling of marijuana and satisfaction. He leaned back into the cushions and asked, “So. How’s the whole pregnant thing going for you?”

Bucky shrugged. “I throw up more than I want and I have no idea how I’m going to handle any of this, but the internet says my spawn is the side of a kidney bean right now, so I guess that’s cool.”

“Where the fuck’s your arm?” asked Clint.

“Brock took the prosthesis,” Bucky responded. He swung his legs up onto the coffee table, and that jaded feeling of knowing that Brock would do what he wanted to do cut into him like a nostalgia nightmare. He hated his prosthetic when he started physical therapy, but in the end he grew to not only rely on it, but like it.

A quick survey of the room showed that Steve was busy recounting some story to Tasha and Sam, his hands waving in those big gestures he favored when he really got into whatever he was talking about. Thor and Val circled the pizzas, loading their plates with their food, laughing about something as they did.

With a sigh, Bucky told Clint, “I didn’t have time to look for my prosthesis. Brock stashed it somewhere, or maybe he got rid of it. He messed me up and I just...had to get out of there. I got a backpack full of clothes and a couple things Steve bought me and that’s it. Other than that, I’ve got nothing.”

“Not nothing. You got Steve. You got me. You got Tasha. I bet you’ve got Sam, too. He’s cool, by the way,” Clint said, “Never met Thor or Val but they seem solid.” He reached for a slice of pizza, cracked his neck, and took a bite. Through meat and cheese, “Dude. Remember when I got into that two-second thing with that Loki guy?”

“Yeah. He was kind of...greasy,” Bucky offered.

“He was bad news. That was only a couple months with a beta and I didn’t feel like myself for forever after that,” Clint said, “This blows, and it’s probably gonna blow for a while.”

“You’re telling me,” muttered Bucky.

“You’re gonna have the kid, though?” Clint prodded.

“Yeah. How’d you guess?” asked Bucky.

Clint stuck his thumb at Steve. “You reek like him. He been hovering, or what?”

Bucky laughed a little. “Oh my God. You don’t know the half of it. So, the other night, I wake up, and he’s literally wrapped his entire body around me. He freaked out, told me to lock my door, and then the next night, he’s curled up in front of my bedroom. I told him this morning that I didn’t care, so I guess me and Steve are sleeping in the same bed?”

“Alphas, man,” Clint said, “Can’t live with ‘em...”

“Without getting cuddled,” chuckled Bucky.

Though Bucky didn’t drink or smoke with the rest of the crew, he still enjoyed the laughs. After Coraline, they shifted to games. Natasha busted out Bananagrams for, in her words, “Steve’s sake.” Steve, being his competitive self (and fond of word games), decimated them all.

Affectionately, Bucky watched Steve arrange his tiles with rapid movements of his hands, eyes narrowed in concentration. He’d given up on beating Steve in any word game since they played Boggle at sleepovers when they were prepubescent dopes. Those were the days. Their biggest worries were winning their Little League games and whether or not they’d get caught sneaking R-rated movies out of Bucky’s parents’ room.

Seeing Steve in his element loosened some of the concern lodged in his chest. Steve was Bucky’s constant, but he didn’t want Steve to give up everything for him. Steve was always so damn ready to be a martyr. Bucky’s job was making sure he didn’t fall into that habit, at least where Bucky and the baby were concerned.

When they said goodbye to their friends, Bucky hugged them all, even Sam. Sam’s alpha scent was mild, musky but subtle. Bucky didn’t hate him, even if he hated the idea of being replaced.

“So,” Steve said, when the front door shut behind their friends, “Uh. Whose bed?”

Bucky ambled forward and rested his forehead on Steve’s shoulder. He wrapped his arms around Bucky’s middle and cradled him close. Bucky lingered in the embrace. He forgot, for too long, what tender touch felt like, to be able to rest with somebody, to not have to be turned on one hundred percent of the time. He could let his guard down and bury his face in Steve’s neck and –

Aw, shit.

Bucky wrenched his nose out of Steve’s scent glands. Heat rose to his face and he sputtered, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“Buck, it’s fine,” Steve said, “If I can stick to you like a magnet, then you can scent me. I don’t mind. Instincts are weird.”

“Instincts are _so_ weird,” Bucky demurred.

“Maybe my bed would be better,” suggested Steve, “So you still have a space that just smells just like you.”

Bucky agreed, and they retreated to their respective bedrooms to swap their clothes out for pajamas. In the safety of the guest room, Bucky allowed his hand to flutter over his middle. He knew that the pregnancy wouldn’t show for another couple of months. He knew the highest risk of miscarriage was during the first trimester. He knew there was no predicting what would happen, but a little hope uncurled in him.

Steve and Bucky brushed their teeth side by side and then trailed into Steve’s room. Unlike the rest of the apartment, Steve’s bedroom lived in a state of disarray, his clothes draped in and around his laundry basket, his sketches and paintings cramped together along the walls and taped up in strange places. Everything reeked of alpha but none of it was off-putting.

Like a kid, Bucky took a running start and jumped onto the bed, bouncing on Steve’s expensive mattress.

Steve laughed and drew back the covers, climbing into his side. He switched off the bedside table lamp. For what might have been seconds but felt like hours, they stayed with a foot and a half of space between them on the mattress, breathing quietly.

“This is stupid,” said Bucky.

“What is?”

Bucky reached over and grabbed Steve’s arm, hauling it over his middle.

“Just cuddle me, you sap,” Bucky ordered.

Steve shifted to his side, wrapped his arms around Bucky in earnest, and placed his chin on the top of Bucky’s head. After a beat of comfortable quiet, a low rumble rolled in Steve’s chest. Without space between them, Bucky could feel the pleased alpha noise, some cross between a growl and a purr. Whatever it was, it melted Bucky’s limbs.

Steve coughed and the rumbling stopped. “Ha. Uh. Sorry about that,” he said.

Bucky huffed a soft laugh. “You worry too much.”


	5. Hang Tight

**Chapter Five**

**Chapter Track: Acid Rain – Lorn**

**_Hang Tight_ **

 

Steve’s birthday came and went, a lowkey event that included the same people they’d invited to their movie night, plus Becca, and some home-cooked food. They barbecued on the roof of the apartment building. Under the glow of multicolored fireworks from all across the city, they ate burgers and hot dogs, complimented by Sam’s potato salad – his mother’s recipe, he told them.

Right after Bucky came home from his tour overseas, down one arm and with a tangled, barbed-wire mess of a mind, the July 4th fireworks set him off hardcore – he huddled in a nest he built in his apartment with his hands (flesh and machine) over his ears.

Now, knowing the fireworks were coming buffered the leap in his heart and catch in his breath when he heard them. Expecting the noise curbed the panic.

He ended up enjoying the evening, though he he clung to Steve just a little tighter under the covers that night.

The weeks passed. The pregnancy websites that Bucky frequented told him his baby was now the size of a fig. Bucky didn’t know what a fig looked like or what size that was, but he did know that his twelve-week doctor’s appointment was next Wednesday, and Steve was taking the day off for it again.

Though Bucky initially protested, Steve always left him cash (“What for?” Bucky asked, and Steve tried playing off that alpha drive to protect with a half-shrug and a, “I dunno, anything you want. Get some food. But also – emergencies.”) in the key dish beside the front door. At first, he didn’t use it. Guilt overrode his desire for anything that would cost Steve money, but then, the cravings doubled down and Bucky had never been more excited for food money. He ordered in pizza and takeout and anything his heart desired. He couldn’t order from an app, but Steve fixed that the instant that Bucky said he was craving shitty fast food and didn’t have access to it.

Steve added as many food delivery apps as he could find, and put his own credit card on Bucky’s StarkPhone account.

Steve enabled Bucky to stay inside the apartment as he’d asked to be allowed to.

Thing was – the fear that heckled Bucky in the first few weeks of living here had since waned, and now the need to leave crept under him like bugs in his brain. He’d read every book on Steve’s StarkPad, every paperback on the bookshelf, and every magazine article.

He’d deleted and blocked Brock on Facebook and changed his password, but didn’t feel safe enough to scroll through his feed. Bucky considered making another one, but mostly scrolled through tumblr, watching cat videos and reblogging of-the-moment memes. The entertainment value tended to wane after a couple hours, and he’d catch himself staring at the view of the street from the living room window, watching the diverse collection of people that slogged through the streets.

As afraid as he’d been of encountering Brock in the outside world, the fear burned bright and hot like kindling (like their fucking relationship, go figure), and died to embers in a handful of weeks.

Bucky’s fear of his mother’s retribution, meanwhile, burned like a bonfire, steady and fed by his cyclical thoughts. She did tell him Brock was bad news. She did tell Bucky to get out of there. She refused to have Brock over for Thanksgiving, and when she refused to allow Brock over for their messy mash-up of Hanukkah and Christmas (Mom was Catholic, Dad was culturally Jewish), Bucky stopped speaking to her.

Now that his own idiocy rained down upon him, Bucky shoved the idea of contacting his mother to the furthest reaches of his mind.

Bucky did, however, check in with Becca every day. Today, he felt a little brave.

 

 **[9:43 AM] Bucky Barnes:** heyyy

 **[9:44 AM] Bucky Barnes:** so i’m feeling adventurous

 **[9:44 AM] Bucky Barnes:** u wanna get coffee

 **[9:44 AM] Bucky Barnes:** not coffee for me hot chocolate for me

 **[9:44 AM] Bucky Barnes:** coffee for u

 **[9:45 AM] Becca Barnes:** Yeah!!! Bean Mezzanine? No class today

 **[9:45 AM] Bucky Barnes:** hell yeah. 11?

 **[9:46 AM] Becca Barnes:** [okay emoji] [thumbs-up emoji]

 

Bucky dressed in one of his new outfits, some sturdy jeans and a lightweight crimson t-shirt. He’d gained back some of his missing weight, but the fabric still hung too loose in his middle for his liking, and he missed the way that denim stretched across his thighs instead of the draping that it did now. His pre-Brock thick thighs had always been a point of pride, a sign that he was strong. He hoped he could get them back to what they’d been.

As Bucky stuffed the cash into the pocket of his jeans, he wavered a little. His hand hovered above the doorknob, fingers trembling.

This apartment was his sanctuary, his port of refuge locked far away from Brock’s reach. If he left it, he didn’t have Steve to rely on.

Bucky opened the door.

He stepped down the stairs with his hand steady on the railing.

And he exited the building.

Muggy, hot air slapped Bucky the moment that he stepped outside. He squinted against the onslaught of sunlight and remembered his hatred of summer. He was a winter guy, the kind that prayed for some good ol’ New York cloud cover.

The walk to Bean Mezzanine was only a few blocks, but by the time he arrived, he’d sweated through his clothes nonetheless. Hot chocolate seemed far less appealing to his overheated body. He craved iced coffee, but online articles on pregnancy websites told him that even decaf was a misnomer, and he should avoid coffee as a whole.

Bean Mezzanine was a dive, plastered in advertisements for struggling Brooklyn musicians and their shows in obscure venues, slam poetry readings, and the odd meetup group for LGBTQIA groups or writers. They featured art done by locals, and this month’s artist was a spray-paint aficionado whose canvases featured ethereal outer space landscapes. Bucky snapped a picture to show Steve later.

At the counter he ordered a lemonade, and by the time he clutched the damp plastic cup in his hand, he spotted Becca waving him over from a table blessedly below one of the A/C vents.

“This is the first time I’ve left Steve’s place,” Bucky admitted, as he lowered his body into the booth.

“Really?” asked Becca, all seriousness, “Did Steve tell you that you couldn’t leave?”

“No, no, God,” Bucky said, “Steve encourages me to leave, but I was, I dunno…afraid of running into Brock. And I guess I was used to staying at home? I never went out unless it was with him. He made it sound like he wanted to protect me and I knew it was bullshit, but I went along with it anyway. It’s so stupid, Becs, but it’s hard to stop being the way I’ve had to be for so long.”

Becca pursed her lips. Call it twin powers or sibling intuition, but Bucky knew she was holding back the indignant alpha anger at somebody in her pack being hurt. She chose her next words carefully, saying, “I’m sorry that it turned out the way that it did.”

But the floodgates had opened. Abruptly, Bucky’s own anger rose like a beast unfolding inside him.

“Did you know I lost my job because of him?” Bucky asked, “He blocked my way out of our place, told me that he didn’t want me to have to work because that meant I was saying he couldn’t take care of me. And he always said he didn’t like the idea of other alphas looking at me. It didn’t start like that, of course. He broke me down piece by piece. It happened so gradually I didn’t notice it. And now? Now that I’ve noticed? I have no idea how to fix it.”

His sister drew in a breath and let it back out in a long stream. She swirled her wooden stir stick in her cup of coffee (how Becca could stand hot coffee in this suffocating heat, Bucky couldn’t say) and replied, “It might take a while for that to happen. You have people willing to help, though.”

“Steve is all about my autonomy,” Bucky told her, “After Brock cut off my phone service, he gave me his phone because he didn’t want me to be without freedom for a single day. It’d be endearing if he stopped giving me speeches about it.”

“He means well,” said Becca.

“I know. I just feel like something’s going to go wrong – because so many things are going right.”

“You can’t think that way.”

“I know,” Bucky said, “I’m trying not to.”

When Becca gave into her curiosity and shifted the topic to Bucky’s pregnancy, none of the tension at their table cleared. A bud of excitement about the baby had opened, but it was surrounded by fear. He had to tell their mother what was happening, but he didn’t know how.

“Maybe we could tell her together?” suggested Becca, “We could StarkTime her.”

“I don’t know,” Bucky said.

“It doesn’t have to be now,” Becca reasoned, “but if you don’t tell her soon, you’re going to hurt her feelings when she does find out. Because you know she will. She keeps bugging me for updates on you. She’s gonna be mad at both of us for keeping secrets.”

“Ugh,” Bucky summarized.

“Yeah,” nodded Becca, “I’m with you on that. Let me know what you decide.”

“I will,” promised Bucky.

After a couple hours of conversation, another lemonade, and two ham and swiss croissants, Bucky and Becca parted. Rather than return right to the apartment, Bucky walked to the small park close to Steve’s, where he sat on a bench in the shade and rehashed his life choices in his head, thoughts circling the same track, like that would help. He knew it wouldn’t, but he couldn’t stop them.

His phone rang from his pocket. A picture of Steve drinking juice straight from the carton splashed across the screen. Bucky had reached to snatch it out of his hands, but Steve dodged him and dribbled juice into his beard as he revenge-drank. The ensuing picture made them both laugh.

“Hey Steve,” Bucky answered, “What’s up?”

“Where are you?” Steve demanded, out of breath and desperate.

“At the park?” Bucky responded, confused. “I got coffee with Becca.”

Steve exhaled into the receiver. “Oh. Oh, thank God. I was so worried. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I got stir crazy,” said Bucky, soothing. Then, more timidly, he added, “I thought that was okay?”

“Of course it’s okay,” Steve said, snapping back to his usual self, “I don’t know why I freaked out. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“I’ll walk home,” replied Bucky, employing his consoling omega voice.

Steve jumped to reply, “You don’t have to. Don’t disrupt your day on account of me, Buck.”

“I wasn’t doing anything anyway,” Bucky told him, “I’ll see you soon.”

“If you’re sure,” said Steve, sounding tentative.

“I’m sure, you punk,” Bucky said, and hung up the phone. As he returned it to his pocket, he spotted an ice cream cart a few feet away. A craving for something frozen and smothered in chocolate jumped onto his back like the pregnancy gremlin, and his feet pulled him there before his brain could catch up.

He arrived back at home with a half-eaten ice cream cone in his hand, but the satisfaction waned the instant that he walked in the door and the stench of stressed alpha assaulted his nose.

“Stevie?” Bucky ventured.

Steve’s head popped up over the back of his favorite armchair. He offered, “Over here.”

“You smell awful,” Bucky told him, looping around to the living room, where he and his ice cream cone curled up on the couch. “What’s the deal?”

Steve slumped low in the chair like a melted puddle of alpha anxiety. Alpha nerves were the actual worst; a stressed alpha meant a compromised alpha, and a compromised alpha meant an unpredictable alpha. Rationally, Bucky knew that stressed Steve differed from stressed Brock, or a random stressed alpha on the street, but his instincts said to put his fists up or take off running.

Steve probably knew that, because he slouched even lower into the chair.

“I don’t want to stress you out,” Steve said.

“And I don’t want to stress you out, but I’ve been doing that plenty,” Bucky responded, “You can talk to me, Stevie. We’re best friends. I hope being a little pregnant doesn’t change that."

Steve straighten a little. “No, of course not,” he said, “It’s just so much. Everything. We have so much that we have to do and -”

“You know that the baby isn’t your responsibility, right?” asked Bucky.

Steve bristled. “Of course it’s my responsibility! You’re my best friend and you’re going through a lot and I’m supposed to take care of you. I can’t do that if I’m falling apart but I’m a ball of anxiety and I can’t make it stop.”

“Whoa,” Bucky said, “Maybe it would help if I got some shit off your plate? Maybe I could get a job.”

“Aw, Bucky, you don’t have to,” said Steve, “I’m not worried about money. I get paid a lot to do what I do, you know? And even if I didn’t, I have a pretty big savings account. It’s more, like, the details. I keep wondering when we’re supposed to buy baby furniture or where the kid is gonna sleep, and how the hell we’re supposed to tell your mother before she loses her mind.”

“I know, right?” Bucky sighed, “Becca offered to be there when I told her. I’m gonna take her up on it, I think. We should do it after my appointment next week. I’ll get ultrasound pictures. Anyway, you don’t have to worry about that stuff. That’s my stuff. I know you’re gonna worry about it whether or not you have to, but still.”

The truth was that Bucky avoided thinking about the future at all, because the sheer amount of what had to be taken into consideration instantly overwhelmed him, squishing his brain into a condensed pancake of distress. He didn’t think he could ask Steve to house not only him but also an infant, because that wasn’t fair. Steve didn’t get him into this, and he didn’t have to suffer the consequences of Bucky’s dumbass self.

Bucky might end up moving to Indiana and holing up with his folks. He hated that idea, because he hadn’t lived in Indiana since childhood and New York was his home, but his options were limited. He could go back to school on the Army’s dime, but that wouldn’t cover childcare costs and he couldn’t ask his family to look after his sprout while he attended his classes. That wouldn’t be fair to them.

“I’m gonna get a job,” Bucky decided. “You’re already paying for, like, my entire life right now. I can build up some savings while I’m staying with you.”

“All right,” Steve surrendered, “You should do what you think is best.”

“You know...what you’re doing...all of this,” Bucky made a gesture at the world at large, “It means a lot. You’re doing me a real solid.”

Steve preened under the attention, the scent of his stress giving way to a sweeter, happier smell. Bucky didn’t bother to mask the fact that he sniffed at the air, and instead opened his arms. He said, “C’mere, dumbass. Give me a hug.”

Steve swooped forward and cradled Bucky to his chest so hard the wind left his lungs. Bucky laughed and hugged back before he shoved Steve away. They grinned, and Steve moved to the other end of the couch so that they could sit with their legs tangled. Steve threw Twilight Zone onto the television because he knew Bucky loved it, and sketched while Bucky cobbled together a resume on the StarkPad.

**

No matter how many times in his adult life Bucky had had to job search, it never got any easier. He hated having to sell himself to strangers, hated having to write and rewrite and tweak his resume to seduce potential employers in just the right way.

The entire experience humiliated him in every possible way.

He used to prefer interviews to applications, because he used to have a modicum of charisma. After he returned from Iraq, he’d lost some of his charm. Employers didn’t see a person, they saw a shell. Whether or not they knew it, they saw Bucky down one arm and wrote him off as useless. He hated it, hated that trying to find a job became that much harder to accomplish after he’d put his life on the line.

So, Bucky threw his resume at everyone that he could think of that might be okay with his disability. Barista jobs were out, but restaurant hosting might not be impossible. He tried for a couple receptionist and data entry positions and some retail. He’d throw something at everyone and see what would stick.

When the twelve-week appointment swung around, Bucky had scheduled several job interviews in several days. That he still had the capacity to be nervous about his appointment irritated him, but he tried to be a good sport and not let on to Steve that he was a mess. If Steve knew Bucky was a mess, he’d become a mess, and then everything would be a mess.

The internet told Bucky that drinking water before his appointment would make for a clearer ultrasound picture, so he hydrated like a motherfucker all morning and regretted everything on the drive to the VA, because his spawn was hanging out on his bladder like a hammock. Steve drove, unafraid to be a speed demon, and they made it to their destination just in time for Bucky to barrel roll his way into the little omega’s room and pee an ocean.

As he had with Bucky’s first appointment, Steve sat alongside him, gripping his hand like a lifeline. Bucky gasped when the ultrasound tech touched the chilly gel to his belly, and Steve about jumped out of his seat.

“Chill out,” Bucky told him, “It’s just cold.”

On the screen, a little form appeared. There were tiny limbs and a tiny nose, all crystal clear.

“See that flutter?” the ultrasound tech pointed out, “That’s the heartbeat. That’s your baby.”

Love, unexpected but not unwelcome, flooded Bucky’s insides. That little thing in his belly? That was his. He grew it, was growing it, and in February, he’d hold it in his arms. The idea of creating a tiny human scared him a little, but he wasn’t nearly as scared as he was overjoyed.

At his side, Steve glowed. Alpha pride blazed from him, so potent that the ultrasound tech started smiling and Bucky sneezed. Were Bucky on the outside, he might have thought that Steve was his mate.

For a brief, terrifying second, he wished Steve _was_ his mate. Whoever Steve’s mate turned out to be, they’d be taken care of. Steve would adore and cherish the hell out of them, give them anything they needed, do whatever it took to make them happy and safe. Why couldn’t that be him, his hindbrain asked?

In the next moment, contempt for himself replaced his silly wish. Steve deserved better than Bucky in a mate. He would never consider Bucky a potential mate, because they were best friends. They weren’t like that. They never had been.

Bucky was a broken, twisted, used-up wreck of a human being. Steve deserved a whole person, and whether they were alpha, beta, or omega, they would be just as wonderful as Steve. Nothing less would be acceptable.

None of those thoughts stopped the strange, alien feeling of longing that pumped through his veins when he turned his head and saw the dopey smile that Steve was directing at the silhouette of the baby. He caught Bucky looking at him and pointed. “Look, Buck,” he said, “You made that.”

“I sure fucking did,” Bucky said, and all of the bad thoughts drained out of him, replaced by pride.

The ultrasound tech printed several images for them before they left and Bucky scheduled his next appointment clutching the pictures to his chest.

“May I have one?” Steve asked, a little timid.

Surprised, Bucky said, “Yeah. Here,” and passed Steve one of the pictures. Steve admired the glossy surface for just a beat before he folded the photo and tucked it into his wallet.

The game plan, following the appointment, was to stop by the grocery store on the way back to get supplies for a chicken and veggies dinner. Steve would cook and Becca would meet them at the apartment to eat. Then, their bellies would be full for the big reveal to Winnie Barnes over StarkTime.

Steve, because he was a shitlord, demanded recompense for dinner in the form of Bananagrams. Only as they lost to Steve for the fourth time did Bucky realize Steve was trying to chill them all out before they StarkTimed the Barnes household in Indiana. His plan worked to an extent – Bucky didn’t feel like he was going to throw up, but then, his stomach turned on a dime these days. At least Becca wasn’t radiating that cloying protective alpha smell, the one alphas put out when they weren’t even trying to be subtle.

All someplace between nervous and appeased, Steve, Bucky, and Becca gathered on the couch. Bucky crinkled one of the ultrasound pictures in his hand while Steve positioned his StarkPad on the cluttered coffee table and tapped on the StarkTime icon.

“All right,” Steve said, “We’re going in,” and he selected the contact for “Winifred Barnes”.

The StarkPad didn’t even make it through an entire ring before the screen filled out with the image of not only Bucky’s mother, but his dad at her side, and his littler sisters bracketing them like bookends. Though Bucky had seen pictures of his sisters on Facebook, the grown-up faces of Rachel and Judy still startled him. What a year and a half of time could do to teenagers blew him away.

Bucky stashed the ultrasound picture between his thighs and said, “Hi, everyone.”

“Bucky, honey, are you okay?” Winnie jumped in, “And are you coming to the family reunion in October? I need to reserve our rooms.”

Relief struck Bucky at once at the fact that his face had long since healed after his last encounter with Brock, and that his family never had to see what he looked like after Brock had taken his fists to him. He carded his fingers back through his hair and replied, “I’m fine, Ma. I’m staying with Steve, but you knew that already. As for the reunion...” Bucky did the mental math. He’d be somewhere around five months by then. He met Steve’s eyes and made an unsure motion with his hand. He tried to convey a silent _will you come with me_? to Steve, and Steve smiled and nodded back to him. _Sure, Buck_ , he could almost hear.

“Yeah, sure, me n’ Steve’ll come to the reunion,” Bucky decided. At his mother’s pinched expression, he reassured her, repeating, “Ma, I promise I’m fine.”

“You’re safe?” she poked.

“Brock has no idea where I am,” Bucky said, hoping it was true. He started in on the speech he’d been rehearsing since Becca called their mother and said that Bucky wanted to talk: “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. I’m sorry we stopped talking. I really messed up, and you were right. You were right about -”

“Sweetheart, I don’t care that I was right,” she said, “I care that you’re okay. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

“We should have let you make your own choices,” George Barnes put in, “We weren’t right to get involved.”

“That’s okay – that’s – it’s over now,” Bucky said, “It doesn’t matter.”

“But I _was_ right,” Winnie added.

Judy smacked her arm and gritted out, “ _Mom_.”

“Anyhow,” Becca chirruped, “That’s not why we wanted to call. Bucky has something he wants to talk about.”

Winnie frowned, but all eyes shifted to Bucky, both on screen and on the couch beside him. He let out a slow breath, steeling himself, and then untucked the ultrasound picture from in between his legs. He held it out to camera and announced, “Hi, grandma.”

“ _WHAT_.”

Everyone on the other side of the StarkPad started talking at once, his sisters asking how far along he was and did he know the sex of the baby yet and when was he due, while his mother and father managed nothing but incoherent, perplexed babble.

Amidst the havoc, Winnie did manage a strangled, “Please tell me it’s Steve’s,” above the din.

“While we wish that were the case…” Steve began.

“I think you know that’s not what happened,” Bucky said, voice flat.

His mom and dad hushed his sisters, and when they went quiet, Bucky continued, “I’ll give you the SparkNotes. For starters, Brock knows. It didn’t go so hot, and that’s how I ended up here. He’ll have contact with the kid over my dead body. I went to my twelve-week appointment today. That’s where I got the ultrasound. My due date is February 4th. We don’t know the sex yet, and I don’t know if I want to. I might keep it a surprise. I don’t know where I’m living once the baby is born, but I’ve been looking for a job. Any questions?”

“But Bucky and the baby are welcome to stay with me for as long as they need,” interjected Steve. Bucky cast him a sour look, which Steve pretended not to see. What an asshole.

“Are you getting morning sickness?” asked George, “I got queasy with you and Becca. You two were a nightmare.”

“Yes, Dad, thank you,” said Bucky, “Nature is now paying me back for your sacrifice. Me and Steve’s toilet are best buds. Sometimes his sink, too.”

“And the sheets, that one time,” Steve put in, “Don’t forget that.”

“Oh, sure, wouldn’t want to forget that,” grumbled Bucky.

Bucky hoped the implication that he and Steve shared the same sheets wouldn’t blip on his parents’ radar, but from their narrowed eyes, he assumed it did. They didn’t give him their usual “if you would just give Steve a chance” speech, probably because Steve was right the fuck there, but he knew he would get it in text form as soon as his parents thought the coast was clear. He wouldn’t tell them that the same thought occurred to him today – that he and Steve, in some far-off universe, could be mates – but that he wouldn’t be the one giving the chance. If Bucky were so lucky to be given a chance…

But no. He cut that daydream right off.

“Don’t worry about me,” Bucky eventually continued, “I’ve got Steve and Becca here.”

“What if Brock...” George started.

“George, no,” Steve said, “Brock will have nothing to do with this. And if he tries, I’ll deck him.”

“Or I will,” Bucky petulantly added, “I know I’m down an arm, but I’m combat-trained, for fuck’s sake.”

Bucky didn’t mention that he never fought back because he didn’t want to hurt Brock’s feelings, because Brock didn’t want to be with an omega stronger than him. He didn’t share that he’d been afraid to lose Brock, because if Brock went, then who would be left?

What mattered, he decided, was that he’d kick the shit out of Brock now.


	6. When You Mess With Us

**Chapter Six**

**Chapter Track: Karma Police – Radiohead**

**_When You Mess With Us_ **

 

The moment that Becca left, Steve put his back to the door and his face in his hands. He loved the Barnes family, but he hadn’t expected the landslide of emotion that came with the reveal of Bucky’s situation, hadn’t expected the pressure of his heart in his throat when Winnie wished that the baby was his.

Like an idiot, Steve agreed with her. He didn’t want Bucky to be his mate – that would be _weird_ , right? - but if that kid were his, Bucky wouldn’t have to be so afraid. The apartment wouldn’t stink of fear when Bucky descended too far into his own head. Though Bucky spoke up far more than he did when he initially reappeared in Steve’s life, he still didn’t talk much about Brock. Primarily guesswork made up Steve’s Brock-related knowledge, and exactly none of it was good.

Steve yearned for a way to make Bucky stop flinching from him.

He hoped somehow Bucky would stop putting out dread-scent when even a flicker of Steve’s anger surfaced.

Steve pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“That was rough,” Bucky said, putting a voice to Steve’s inner monologue. “Not as bad as I thought it would be, though.”

“Why, what did you think would happen?”

“More yelling, I guess,” answered Bucky.

Covertly, Steve raked his eyes over Bucky. He’d gained weight, though whether that weight was due to decent eating or the kiddo, Steve couldn’t say. The details of pregnancy escaped him. He dropped about a hundred bucks on baby-themed e-books on his StarkPad, and would be pouring over them had Bucky not gotten there first. (“Thanks for buying those for me,” Bucky said, and Steve replied, “No problem,” because that seemed somehow more appropriate than, “Actually, I bought them for me.”)

That night in bed, Steve clutched Bucky tighter to him than usual. He didn’t apologize when his alpha purr made Bucky go loose-limbed and pliant.

They didn’t discuss it in the morning. They never did.

Lately, Bucky’s stomach woke their tiny household before Steve’s alarm had the chance. Steve sat with his back against the bathtub while Bucky vomited, rubbing his back in circles for lack of anything useful to do.

His only consolation was that Bucky told him he was doing fine. He hated how the alpha in him puffed up with pride at the slightest sliver of praise, like a wolf bringing home his successful hunt. For better or worse, Steve’s hindbrain assigned “pack” to Bucky and the brewing little one. Down to the marrow of his bones, his body demanded that he care.

And even if his body demanded nothing, this was Bucky, and Steve would care regardless. 

These days, in the matter of minutes that passed while Steve dressed for work and the coffee brewed, Bucky built nests on the couch and hunkered down inside them with the StarkPad to search for jobs or read the baby books. Today, a quick glance over Bucky’s shoulder told Steve the job search was on the docket. Bucky scrolled fiercely through Indeed.com, eyes scanning every posting, even ones that paid scraps for skilled work.

Steve counted himself lucky he’d found a place at Stark Industries. The company was a rare gem in a sea of businesses taking advantage of young people.

“How goes the search?” he asked, pointedly not mentioning the fortress of blankets and pillows Bucky arranged around his body. He always put the linens and cushions away before they called it a night, but in the last handful of days he’d done so with a little more reluctance.

“Finding stuff I can do with one arm is kinda hard,” Bucky admitted.

“Do you think the VA would give you another one?”

“Oh, sure, that would go over well,” Bucky said, “Hey, I just kinda lost that arm that cost the government thousands of dollars to make for me and teach me to use, can I get another?”

“All right. I see your point.”

“Getting through the jobs I can’t do is just the half of it,” Bucky told him, “Even if I could do a job with one arm, I have to make it through the application process, and if I make it to an interview, they’ll see me and write me off.”

“I know I’ve said this before, but you don’t have to get a job,” Steve said.

Bucky puffed up and aimed a truly withering look at Steve. He responded, “I need this, okay? I know you’re doing your alpha thing, but Brock did his alpha thing too, and then I had no choice but to rely on him for everything.”

“I am _not_ Brock,” Steve snapped.

At the barb, Bucky tore his eyes from Steve and looked down, head hanging. He didn’t turn his attention back, instead, he said toward his lap, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I meant...I guess it doesn’t matter what I meant. I’m really sorry.”

 _That’s okay_ died on Steve’s tongue, because this wasn’t right. He didn’t want Bucky to wilt at an edge to his voice. He didn’t want Bucky to bend to his will because he let alpha bleed into his words and fashion a command. This Bucky wasn’t in the fighting shape that he remembered; he was groomed to obey.

Steve circled Bucky’s nest. He knelt on the floor in front of the sofa, took Bucky’s hand in his to get his attention. When Bucky lifted his head, Steve tilted his neck in a show of vulnerability, submission, and gentled his voice to say, “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I want you to get a job, if that’s what you need. I’m trying real hard not to be batshit nuts with the alpha crap.”

Bucky groaned and let his head _thunk_ against the back of the couch.

“I fucking hate this,” he said, “I know you’re not a threat to me, but it’s like my body can’t remember.”

Steve shrugged. “You’re not gonna get better overnight. We both know that.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not pissed about it,” Bucky said, “I mean, for fuck’s sake. We used to go to the gym together. We used to wrestle and fuck around. I wasn’t even this afraid of humanity when I came back from my tour. One bad dude was all it took for me! What is wrong with me?” His voice cracked and his emotions bubbled up. A horrible, rancid stench billowed from Bucky, a cross between fear and self-hatred and hopelessness.

Steve didn’t think, because his hindbrain kicked into gear. He climbed onto the couch, reached into the nest, and cradled Bucky to him. With a hand at the back of Bucky’s head, Steve guided Bucky’s nose into his throat. He sputtered, trying to call up that purr that lulled Bucky to sleep, but all noise stuck in his chest in a tangled mass. “It’s not your fault,” Steve said, “It’s not your fault. He did that to you.”

“Why am I fucking like this?” Bucky ground out into Steve’s neck.

“Some awful shit happened to you,” Steve told him, “You can’t make it un-happen. You won’t feel better right away. Rome wasn’t built in a day, after all.”

“I feel like a scared child,” said Bucky, “I feel weak. I feel useless.”

“Buck, you are one of the bravest human beings I know. You face a world built for alphas every single day of your life. You’re one of the first combat-trained omegas in US history! You kick PTSD in the shins on the regular. Brock was a nightmare, but you still made it. And now you’re gonna be a dad, and you’re taking it all in stride.”

“I am not,” whined Bucky, “I spend ninety percent of my day panicking.”

“So? You’re powering through with your anxiety on top of it all,” Steve said, “Sometimes I think I can’t make it through my day, but then I see you. I see you fight your brain, your designation, your past, your future – you fight harder than any alpha I’ve ever known.”

At last, Bucky pulled away from Steve’s throat, nose twitching. He swiped at his damp eyes with the edge of one of the quilts in his nest and asked, “Do you really think that?”

“I know it,” Steve said.

**

The days of job searching wore on Bucky more than he would ever admit to Steve aloud. No amount of silent suffering, however, stifled the lines of defeat on Bucky’s face or the slump of his body. As Bucky got sadder, the nests grew larger, deeper burrows for a safer haven.

Three frustrating weeks passed before Bucky found a job. When Steve arrived home to his best friend grinning from ear to ear, omega excitement crackling through the air, he knew the hunt was over. Relief washed over him.

The elated scent of Bucky uplifted Steve. His brain spun and his body went lax, the sensation not unlike the first tipsy stages of being drunk. His face split in a wide smile to match the one on Bucky’s face. He tossed his leather work bag aside, and before Bucky could speak, Steve blurted, “Where’d you get hired?”

“Man, so, get this,” Bucky said, “I applied to work the front desk at Valkyrie Fitness, you know, that gym down the street? Guess who owns it. Val! Val is short for Valkyrie, apparently.”

“Thor’s mate?” Steve asked.

“Yeah. She takes one look at me and was like, ‘You’re looking for a job?’ and I’m all, ‘Yeah, I’m trying to save for the kid.’ And she doesn’t even interview me, just says, ‘Cool,’ and prints off the new hire paperwork then and there.”

“That’s awesome, Buck,” Steve said, feeling all the pride of a pack alpha and pretending Bucky wouldn’t catch on, “When do you start?”

The excitement faded, sucked out the air like a vacuum. Bucky tugged at a stray lock of hair escaping his half-up hair, lips thinning into a flat line.

“What is it?” asked Steve.

“All my documents are still with Brock. My passport. My social security card. Even my birth certificate,” Bucky said, “Obviously I need them, but...I don’t think I can face him, Steve. I hate it, but I’m not ready for it. I’m afraid if I see him, I’ll fall apart – or worse. What if he hurts the kid? Is that stupid?”

“It’s not stupid,” Steve reassured him, and with only a breath’s worth of consideration went on, “Tell me the address.”

“What?”

“The address,” repeated Steve, “Give me it, and I’ll take care of it.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Bucky said, face grave.

Steve closed his eyes. “We’ve been over this,” he explained, “You’re not asking. I’m offering. You tell me where to find Brock, and I’ll get your stuff. I can even get your prosthesis back.”

Bucky hesitated. “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“Who, me?” Steve said, “I would never.”

“He’ll call the cops.”

“I’ll bring backup,” reasoned Steve.

“As much as it pains me to say this, you can’t hurt him,” Bucky said.

“What? Why?” Steve pouted. If there was one thing he wanted more than anything, it was to deck Brock right in the nose, to feel that asshole’s blood stick to his knuckles after he rearranged his face.

“Because you’ll get arrested, you dumb fucker,” Bucky illustrated his point with an exasperated flail.

Steve folded his arms across his chest. He didn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t presenting alpha-style, displaying strength to convince Bucky of his capability to take on another alpha. Nonchalant, Steve said, “It’s not like I haven’t been arrested before.”

“This isn’t a protest, Steve!” burst Bucky, “This is a petty, violent man who knows cops exist to protect white alphas like him.”

“Okay. Fine,” Steve relented, “I won’t hurt him. Much.”

“Steve.”

Steve pinched the air between his thumb and forefinger. “Just one little punch. Please.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“ _No,_ ” Bucky reiterated, “and I’m not going to give you the address unless you swear to me that you don’t hit him, you stay out of trouble, and you bring backup, like you said you would. All I need is my shit, not some avenging angel.”

They bickered back and forth, but nothing that Steve said could charm Bucky into believing that the best course of action was to pay Brock back for what he’d done. Steve surrendered to more peaceable terms. He promised he wouldn’t give Brock the beating that he deserved, and as much as it pained him, intended on keeping that promise.

Steve Rogers was a man of his word, after all.

Bucky scrawled the address on the corner of a page in Steve’s favorite moleskine, Steve texted Sam and Natasha, and the deal was done.

Tomorrow, Steve had a mission.

**

To avoid Bucky calling the plan off, Steve didn’t tell him when he was going. He waited until Bucky fell asleep in his nest on the couch with a carton of ice cream cradled against his chest. Before he left, Steve gently drew the ice cream and spoon out of Bucky’s lax hands and replaced them in the kitchen.

Then, he ducked out.

Natasha and Sam met Steve in the parking lot of a small strip mall. As Natasha climbed out of her car, she pulled a steel baseball bat with her, and slung it over her shoulder.

Sam lifted a brow and said, “I thought we had to promise not to hurt him.”

“Steve promised,” Natasha said, “not us. But in the spirit of listening to Bucky, this is all for show. He said we couldn’t hit him, not that we couldn’t scare him. And I would really, really like to scare him.” She smiled a sharp, all-teeth smile and mimed swinging the bat.

Sam, ever the good sport, agreed to drive them all to the apartment. To Steve’s dismay, the apartment that once belonged to Bucky wasn’t as far as he thought. All this time, Bucky lived within arm’s reach. He never came to Steve, and Brock was out there nearby, only in a different neighborhood by the skin of his teeth.

The building in question didn’t have the security that Steve’s building did. It was an older, brick thing, a conglomeration of apartments that hadn’t changed since their residents moved into them in the seventies and renovated wonders snatched up by hipsters looking for a diamond in the rough.

Brock’s place fell into the latter category, Steve found out, when the dickhead answered their insistent knock.

A blend of surprise and anger crossed Brock’s face, but before he could shut them out, Natasha wedged the baseball bat between the door and its frame. Brock growled in warning, but Steve manhandled his way inside, stepping across the threshold into what had to be the worst-smelling location he’d deigned to visit.

“We’re here to collect Bucky’s belongings,” Natasha said coolly, tapping the end of the bat on the faux-wood laminate floor.

“Fuck you, bitch,” Brock spat, “If you don’t get out now, I’m calling the cops.”

“Do it,” Steve said, “I fucking dare you. And if you don’t show us where his things are, we’ll go ahead and help ourselves.”

“This is my territory,” Brock said, shoulders tense, “Get. Out.”

Natasha swung the bat at Brock’s head, but stopped right before it connected with his face. She stroked his cheek with it, her alpha anger chasing away some of the acrid, burned-rubber scent of Brock surrounding them. She said, “Guess we’ll give ourselves the tour.” She slunk closer to Brock and cozied up to his side. She stroked along his arm, growling softly, and extracted the cellphone from the back pocket of Brock’s jeans.

“I’ll take this,” she drawled.

Before Brock had time to retaliate, Sam and Steve strode past him. They threw every door until the found the bedroom. There, barest traces of Bucky’s scent lingered in the corners of the room, marking it as a place that he stayed in often. While Sam threw up the covers of the bed to check beneath it, Steve rifled through the closet, throwing clothing onto the ground and objects on the mattress. In a cardboard box in the corner of the closet, he found pictures of Bucky’s family, frames smashed, but photos in tact.

He took this as his first prize, while Sam announced, “I got something.”

Brock thundered into the room after them. He dove for Steve, but Sam yanked him back by the arm and put him in a firm hold. He said, “I got this. There’s another box under the bed. Got all kinds of papers in it.”

Steve scooted to retrieve Sam’s find. Some of the crap was Brock’s, but at the bottom he found not only Bucky’s social security card and birth certificate, but two familiar velvet boxes he knew to contain Bucky’s Silver Star and Purple Heart. He placed them on top of the mess of Bucky’s pictures, then turned back to Brock. Evenly, Steve asked, “Now. Where the fuck is Bucky’s arm?”

“Fuck you,” Brock spat, a low growl rattling his chest.

God, Steve hated him. He had the fit build of an alpha that liked to hit the gym, but a quality of meanness twisted his face. What might have been good looks, what might have lured Bucky into attraction, crumbled into ugliness in light of the wretched person this alpha was. How Steve wished he could hurt him.

Brock ripped out of Sam’s grip and lunged again. Steve pivoted to protect the box of Bucky’s things and took the blow against his side. He didn’t lash out, because he promised Bucky he wouldn’t, but the growl that ripped out of him resounded through the room, loud and enraged and every inch the threat Steve intended it to be.

Sam wrenched Brock off of Steve in time for Natasha to join them.

“Heard some trouble,” she said. She took up the baseball bat and aimed it directly at Brock’s crotch. Sweetly, she ordered, “Tell the nice man where the arm is.” She dug the bat between his legs, pressing up on his balls through the denim.

Sweat shined on Brock’s temples. His face paled. He said, “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, she would,” Sam assured him. He tightened his hold, muscles bulging with the strain of keeping him contained.

“I really would,” agreed Natasha.

“Fine! Fuck! It’s in the hall closet under the winter coats,” Brock gasped, “Stop – doing – that, damn it.”

“Steve, go,” Natasha said, “We have him.”

With a cough, Steve stopped growling and took his trophies from the bedroom. He transferred the box to his right arm and rifled through the crap crammed into the closet. For good measure, he threw some board games into the box, and tossed anything that smelled too much of Brock onto the ground. After a minute of digging, he found his bounty. There, on the back of one high shelf, sat Bucky’s prosthesis, a little dusty and tangled with its own charging cord, but unharmed.

“Got it!” Steve shouted.

The sound of stampeding footsteps preceded Natasha and Sam. Brock dashed after them as they all ran for the apartment door. He jumped to grab Sam but missed, and they slid out to the corridor, slamming Brock’s apartment door behind them.

They ran. Darting down the staircases, barreling down the block, and throwing their bodies into Sam’s car, they ran. Sam started the car only a beat before Brock rounded the corner on the bordering sidewalk. He propelled his shoulder into the side of Sam’s car as Sam navigated out of their parallel parking spot.

“Fuck you guys!” Brock cursed, and butted into the car again.

“Shit,” Sam cursed, “That better not leave a dent, or you’re paying for it, Rogers.”

Brock’s roar of rage faded as they skidded out onto the road.

Breathless, Steve laughed. He clutched his winnings to his chest, giddy and proud. They’d done it. Not only had they gotten what Bucky asked for, but they left Brock in one piece. His hindbrain screamed at him to turn back and beat Brock to a pulp, but he managed to curb it, biting back another incredulous guffaw. He did everything right, just the way his omega asked him to.

His omega? Christ. He set that thought aside.

“Thank you, guys,” Steve exhaled, when his delirium subsided, “I can’t thank you enough.”

“We’re ride or die, man,” Sam told him, “but you still owe me a steak dinner. I’m talking classy shit, none of that Applebee’s nonsense. I want fabric napkins and mood lightning.”

“Anything,” swore Steve, “This is worth anything.”

Natasha glanced over the shoulder of the passenger’s seat and tilted her head. She said, “I’ll keep a favor in the bank. I’m – honestly, I’m just happy that Bucky’s back home. We missed him. That felt good.”

As they drove, Steve organized the contents of the box. He untangled the charging cord from the prosthesis and coiled it into a loop, placing it delicately on top of the ruined picture frames. He tucked the documents along one side so that they wouldn’t get crinkled, and stacked the prosthesis back on top of the board games when he was done.

He’d done it. He got Bucky’s things.

Or, they did, rather.

The car at large breathed a collective sigh of relief when Sam pulled back into the strip mall parking lot between Natasha and Steve’s cars. They didn’t climb out right away, but instead stared at one another. Three strains of alpha triumph twisted through the car and Steve reveled in it.

“I love you guys,” he said fervently.

“We love you back,” Sam told him, “but y’all are stinking up my car, so I’m gonna ask you to get out.”

In the lot, Steve loaded his treasure into his backseat before he hugged his friends goodbye. He held each of them snug to his chest, one friend under each arm, until Natasha started to laugh and shoved him aside. She said, “All right. We get it. You’re bringing home the kill to your omega.”

“He’s not mine,” Steve protested.

“Is he not?” Natasha said, glancing at her fingernails, “Interesting.”

“Wow, look at the time,” said Sam, and slid out from under Steve’s arm. He sketched a comical little salute before he clambered back in his car.

As the engine rolled to life, Natasha took Steve’s wrist in hand. She tugged him close to get his attention. Looking him dead in the eye, she said, “You should think about what you really want from him.”

“From Sam?”

“Don’t play dumb; it’s not cute,” was the crisp reply, “Think about what you want from Bucky.”


	7. So Many Baby Steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning: this Steve does not like cops. If that's an issue for you, you can turn back now.

**Chapter Seven**

**Chapter Track: Builder’s Tea – Acollective**

**_So Many Baby Steps_ **

 

Pleased as punch, Steve jogged up the steps to his and Bucky’s third-floor apartment, box of belongings clutched in his arms. Never before had a rush of alpha pride struck him this hard, at least outside of Bucky’s doctor’s appointments.

These past weeks, the sensation of pride inundated him, taking hold at any given moment. The emotion stemmed from anything, from feeding Bucky a meal that he enjoyed to adding blankets smothered in his scent to Bucky’s couch-based nests, temporary as they were.

The twelve-week appointment brought out the most potent of his delight in the situation, pride so mighty at the image of the baby Steve could do nothing to stomp it down. He knew the baby was Bucky’s and Bucky’s alone (Brock may have contributed DNA, but he would _never_ be a father. Not that he would tell this to Bucky), but Steve’s hindbrain, the wily bastard, saw the ultrasound and declared _mine_.

Steve didn’t want to think about why that might be, beyond the instincts the pregnancy brought out in him to bother him and Bucky.

The pride at that grainy image of a tiny head and little body, though, radiated. The pride-smell broadcasted with such ferocity that Bucky sneezed and every nurse in the office congratulated Steve instead of Bucky.

And now -

Now Steve brought home a bounty for his best friend. This was what the internet meant when they said that doing important tasks for a pregnant omega was like a drug. Doing things for your pregnant omega was crucial to the mental wellbeing of the alpha.

For all intents and purposes, Steve was that alpha.

God, this pregnancy was doing things to his brain. Things Steve didn’t know how to handle.

Dredging up old feelings Steve didn’t know how handle.

Wiping that thought from his head, Steve fitted his key into the lock. He made to slide inside with triumph, but instead tripped over his own feet past the threshold. Bucky, no longer napping, popped up from his nest like a meerkat. His gaze flicked from Steve’s face to the box in his grip. Baffled, he said, “You – you already went? You didn’t even tell me you were going.”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Steve told him. He crossed the distance between them, now inexplicably nervous, and slid Bucky’s things onto the coffee table.

Bucky extricated his body from his mound of blankets and stood over the box. Gingerly, he took up the prosthesis. As he held it in his hand, he turned to look at Steve. “You really got it,” he said, wondering.

Bucky set the prosthesis aside, so careful that it barely made a sound against the hardwood of the coffee table. Silent and slow, he pulled out the board games and thumbed through the documents. His hand hovered over the boxes that contained his medals, but he didn’t open them.

“We couldn’t find your passport,” Steve said, wilting a little, “Didn’t have enough time.”

“That’s fine. I think I needed to renew it anyway. Got it for that class trip to Europe when we were what? Eighteen?”

“You were eighteen; I was seventeen,” Steve supplied.

“See. Ten years. It’s expired. I can’t believe you – oh,” Bucky paused, peering at the bottom of the box, “He smashed my pictures.” He plucked one up, an eight by ten of Bucky and his parents at his basic training graduation. He looked handsome in his ACUs, his hair then-cropped close to the scalp and a grin wide on his face. Steve attended the ceremony, too, though God only knew if Brock let Bucky keep the photos with Steve in them.

Bucky dusted the stray bits of glass from the edges of the frame and heaved a sigh. “Guess I should be grateful be didn’t rip ‘em up, too,” then, “Thanks, Steve. You really didn’t have to do this.”

“I really did,” Steve said. He draped an arm over Bucky’s shoulders and reeled him in for a hug. Slyly, as they drew apart, Steve mentioned, “Natasha brought a baseball bat.”

“She didn’t,” Bucky gaped at Steve and scolded, “I told you that you couldn’t hurt him.”

“We didn’t,” Steve said, smirk growing ever-larger, “But you didn’t say we couldn’t scare him. You should have seen his face, Buck. If we didn’t have to get out of there so fast, I would’ve snapped you a picture. She put the fear of God into him. And, say what you want about the Air Force, but Sam handled that fucker like Fedex.”

A startled, choked-off laugh erupted from Bucky. It was a coarse, throaty noise, nothing like an omega should sound like, and everything that Bucky should. Bucky’s joy was every bit the buffet that he hoped it would be when he brought back the treasures from Brock’s apartment. Instinct was silly that way, sometimes.

“We can get new frames for the pictures,” offered Steve, “I have a couple I’m not using right now, if you want to put them up someplace.”

“I can – you’d let me do that?” asked Bucky. The startled, awed expression didn’t fit on a face that was not soft. The five o’clock shadow and sharp line of his jaw seemed incongruent with the coiled, tentative fear of his body.

And didn’t that just knock the wind right out of Steve’s sails? That the photos lived in the closet before Bucky left, that Brock wouldn’t allow them to be displayed, hadn’t occurred to him.

“Brock didn’t let you,” Steve stated.

“I mean – well, yeah. He said they interfered with the aesthetic of the interior design? Or something? I don’t know. I kept them in our closet so I could look at them when I wanted,” Bucky shrugged as though this behavior were normal, and Steve ignored the prickle of anger that resurfaced whenever Bucky peeled back a layer of Brock to reveal another, shittier layer.

Rather than have the outburst that he wanted, Steve took off down the short hallway and threw open the closet at the end of it, the closet he referred to lovingly as his junk closet, which was mostly spare art supplies and half-used canvases.

Bucky lingered several paces behind Steve at the mouth of the hallway. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

Steve rummaged behind an old, stained tea canister full of paintbrushes, and there he found his plunder. He extracted the (slightly dusty) picture frames he hadn’t ended up using for any of his own photos, the pictures of him with his mom and his friends and one old photo of his dad in his dress uniform that he kept on his dresser in his bedroom.

“Here,” Steve said, presenting the handful of frames. There were six, of varying sizes and styles. “Let’s put some up on the shelf in the living room. And, actually, let me move my degree to your room. That way we can put whichever one’s your favorite on the wall in the living room, right next to your nest.”

“Let me, um, put on my arm, first,” Bucky said. Steve stacked the old frames on the couch while Bucky wiggled out of his shirt. His prosthetic arm was bionic technology, only somewhat complicated by the fact that his was an above-the-elbow amputation. Steve tried not to get caught up in admiring Bucky’s naked torso, which had filled out considerably in the last several weeks. The primordial stages of baby weight stuck out over the top of his jeans, his belly barely distended – only enough that somebody that knew about the pregnancy would notice.

“Can you help me with the harness?” Bucky asked.

Steve had done this before, but not in a long time. He helped Bucky loop the straps over his head and under his flesh arm, then Bucky did the rest. He pressed down to fit his stump into it. The arm hung lifeless at his side, and for too long, they both stared at it.

“Is it broken?” whispered Steve.

Bucky said, “It has to charge. I’m so fucking stupid. Help me back out.”

“You’re not stupid,” Steve murmured, but helped anyway.

Bucky fished the coiled charging cord from where Steve arranged it in the box, then plugged it into the outlet beside Steve’s favorite chair, the arm of which he rested the charging prosthesis on. He said, “It’ll be nice to have that back,” with a fond look over at the tech that he hadn’t been allowed to use.

They spent the rest of the afternoon rescuing Bucky’s photographs from the damaged frames, shaking off shards of glass and taking care not to rip anything. They put the basic training graduation photo beside the picture of Joe Rogers on Steve’s dresser, since they shared the bedroom, now.

Bucky chose a picture from the same day to hang on the living room wall.

Turned out that Bucky did keep the picture with Steve in it from that day – he had stashed it at the bottom of the box. Brock did more damage to that picture than any other, balling it up and crinkling it, but Bucky smoothed it out, pressing it flat beneath a heavy hardback fantasy book before he slid it underneath glass in a cherry frame.

The picture looked right on Steve’s wall, mingling with the mixed art by Steve’s hand and that he’d purchased from local artists. Bucky in his uniform, and Steve, then beardless, dressed in nice slacks and a blue button-down, arms thrown over each other in the easy way that they’d always had with each other.

They didn’t know then that Bucky would be one of five omegas selected for combat, the first omegas in United States history. They didn’t know then that Bucky would jump in front of one of his buddies in a maneuver that would cost him his left arm. They didn’t know he’d be taking home PTSD, a Silver Star, and a Purple Heart.

Seemed like forever ago that picture was taken, when in reality only six years had passed between them then, and them now. They were a hell of a pair – art school alpha, soldier omega, still the same idiots they been together since the second grade.

“Looks good there, huh?” Bucky said. Happy crow’s feet creased the corners of his eyes as he stared at the photograph, and he absently patted his stomach. He did that more, lately.

“Yeah,” agreed Steve, though he wasn’t looking at the picture as he said, “Looks perfect.”

**

As the photo of Steve and Bucky stared proudly from its new place of honor, a little chunk of doubt loosened behind Bucky’s ribs like a brick from an old wall. With his things put away, the apartment slotted into a place in his mind a little more like home and a little less like a temporary safe house. Bucky still didn’t want to burden Steve with both an omega and a baby, but maybe – just maybe – that wouldn’t be the worst possible outcome.

Maybe Steve really wouldn’t mind. Maybe the insistence that helping Bucky wasn’t a hardship wasn’t lip service.

Maybe the apartment did belong to both of them, even if Bucky didn’t pay rent.

They used to be like this:

During Steve’s art school education, they cohabited in a tiny, scummy one-bedroom place overridden with cockroaches and mold, but filled with their pictures and Sarah Rogers’ quilts and Steve’s art. Bucky’s mom knitted all their potholders (and a blanket that Brock had physically thrown into the dumpster behind their building, but Bucky was too humiliated to admit that to Steve or his mother). Their stuff lived melded together as they lived melded together.

Sure, a permanent damp, musty smell cursed the joint, but it was theirs. Bucky and Steve shared its single bedroom, each on either side of the room in twin beds culled from Craigslist ads. Their toothbrushes lived in the same Looney Tunes jam jar from Bucky’s childhood. They drank from one another’s coffee mugs and read each other’s books.

When Bucky left for basic, and then Iraq, he entrusted Steve with most of his belongings.

After his return from the hospital post limb loss, Bucky moved that stuff and himself in with his parents, insistent that Steve not be forced to deal with his nightmares and panic attacks and generally unhinged head. The episodes didn’t plague him now as they did initially, but now that he and Steve slept in the same bed – well, Steve talked him off the cliff every so often.

Brock chastised Bucky for his nightmares. He snapped and told him to “calm down” when the panic attacks struck – and he hated having Bucky’s things around.

So it was nice to see his life integrated into the place that he lived. Brock wanted Bucky to take up as little space as possible. Bucky wasn’t a person to him, he was a thing to fuck and control. The flowers and promises, the sweet stuff in between the scary, tricked Bucky into believing Brock was okay.

The more that Steve was himself, all good intentions and determination, the more Bucky recoiled at his choice to stick with Brock.

Not that Steve would ever be his alpha like Brock was. Steve would never think of him that way.

His alpha or not, Steve nonetheless scurried back under the little wall Bucky built, where he used to be and where he belonged. Now, as he drew, a pencil behind one ear, beard freshly trimmed and tongue sticking out between his teeth, Bucky _wanted_. Bucky hoped for his sake the longing was his hindbrain’s way of handling pregnancy, but he suspected the truth was that the pregnancy dislodged something that was already there, turning up age-old feelings he chose until now to ignore.

That Steve might love him as alpha loved an omega was impossible. Bucky was his best friend, plain and simple.

But Bucky could dream. No one would know.

Upon catching Bucky staring, Steve asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You have pencil on your face,” Bucky lied, and slunk across the couch to pretend to wipe the offending mark from Steve’s cheek. Warm skin encouraged Bucky to linger a little too long, cradling Steve’s face in his palm. Soft skin contrasted prickly beard, and together they were perfect.

Steve’s eyes snapped to Bucky’s fingers, and Bucky yanked them back. He murmured, “There. All good.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Steve said, cheekily.

“Well, you know,” - Bucky gestured to his stomach - “Gotta start practicing.”

A sharp rap at the door cut off whatever response Steve might have had. He set his sketchbook on the arm of the couch and unfolded his large body. Bucky padded a few feet behind him, curious.

Steve opened the door to a pair of cops – alpha, by the smell of them. Typical. On the left, a heavyset, curly-haired cop crossed his arms above his belly. His partner, a younger, freckled guy, held a notebook in his hand and smelled of inexperience.

“Steven Rogers?” the one of the left said, “I’m Officer Schwartz. This is my partner, Officer McBride. Would you mind stepping out into the hall so we can chat?”

Steve, to Bucky’s surprise, obeyed. Bucky leaned on the door frame and watched, shoving his hand into the pocket of his jeans.

Steve didn’t posture or growl or even put off an agitated scent. The officers blinked from each other to Steve and back again. Whatever they’d been expecting, it wasn’t cooperation. Hell, Bucky didn’t expect Steve to cooperate with cops. His history was a storied past of not cooperating with cops.

And here he was, cool as a cucumber, so calm he might have been mistaken for a beta were it not for his earthy-spicy-licorice alpha scent. Steve asked, voice even, “How can I help you, officers?”

“We got a call from a Brock Rumlow,” Schwartz said, “Says you broke into his apartment and stole from him.”

Bucky’s heart skittered to a stop. McBride and Schwartz’s attention flew to him, but Bucky couldn’t stop the omega fear-scent leaking from him. He told Steve this would happen. He had.

Steve, with no fear-scent at all, said casually, “Ah, yeah, we’ve had some problems with him.”

Schwartz’s brows popped together. “Can you elaborate on that?” he queried.

Steve nodded. “Sure,” he said, unbothered, “He’s my omega’s ex-boyfriend. He roughed him up, you know? Wasn’t too happy when Buck decided to leave him. He sent threatening text messages to him, before we got his number changed. I can show them to you, if you like? I figured he might escalate when he didn’t get a response. I’ve been worrying about his behavior, because, you know,” Steve reeled Bucky in with one arm and planted his lips on the side of Bucky’s head, hard enough that his mouth made a smacking noise, “He’s pregnant. You can smell, can’t you? We’re excited. But like I said, we’ve been worried about Brock. His behavior’s just...” Steve shrugged.

The officers exchanged another glance between them.

“Did you want to see those messages?” Steve asked.

And how the fuck did Steve know that Brock sent Bucky shitty texts those first couple of days? Bucky never showed them to him.

“That won’t be necessary,” Schwartz said, “We’ve dealt with cases like this before. Seems pretty cut and dry to me. Lotta alphas out there that can’t deal with omegas moving on to greener pastures, ‘specially if they’re that heavy-handed type.”

Schwartz reached out and patted Bucky’s arm. He said, “We’re glad you got outta there, son. And congrats on the kiddo.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said. He tried not to stiffen or flinch, but did anyway, solidifying the pitying expressions on the police officers’ faces.

Schwartz offered his hand to Steve, and when Steve took it, he said, “You go ahead and let us know if he bothers you again.”

“I will,” replied Steve, “Thanks for coming out here, and fighting the good fight. We appreciate you.”

The police officers preened, each shaking Steve’s hand a final time before they left and Steve and Bucky returned to the safety of the apartment.

“What the fuck was that?” demanded Bucky, “How did you know Brock sent me asshole texts?”

“I guessed?” Steve said.

“Also! ‘Fighting the good fight’? You hate cops! You got pepper-sprayed like two years ago for yelling at one!”

Steve took Bucky by the shoulders and said, “Buck. I was bullshitting.”

“When did you get good at lying?” cried Bucky, “You’re terrible at lying.”

Steve chuckled. “I’m terrible at lying _to you_ ,” he corrected, “Besides, I didn’t lie-lie to them. You’re my omega friend, you are pregnant, I am excited about the baby, Brock’s a dick, and I am worried about his behavior. If I let them come to their own their own conclusions, then that’s on them.”

“You are unbelievable,” Bucky said, biting back a smile. Then, with a realization: “Wait. You’re excited about the baby?”

“A’course I am, you jerk. It’s yours. Why wouldn’t I be excited? The baby’s a piece of you. I already love it.”

“You do?”

Steve pulled Bucky in for another hug, this one genuine instead of a show for the police. He crushed Bucky to his chest and drew Bucky’s nose into his neck. It wasn’t exactly the move of a best friend, was dangerously close to the embrace of a lover, but Bucky drew in his scent regardless. He watched Steve’s throat bob as he softly told him, “Duh. I love you, so why wouldn’t love your baby? I’m gonna be Uncle Steve, and I’ll buy them ugly little outfits and annoying toys that make annoying noise.”

“Uncle Steve is already an asshole,” Bucky complained, but he was laughing. If he didn’t laugh, he’d cry, because Steve loved him and the baby, even though another alpha made the baby, even though that alpha was trash and Bucky’d fallen for his bullshit.

“From what I hear,” Steve said, “It’s my job as an uncle to be an asshole.”

“I hate you,” Bucky muttered, but Steve knew what he meant, and what he meant was _I love you too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious: Steve got pepper sprayed at a Black Lives Matter rally.


	8. Count Your Blessings

**Chapter Eight**

**Chapter Track: Baby Moses – Jordan Klassen**

**_Count Your Blessings_ **

 

At seventeen weeks pregnant, Bucky started his job at Valkyrie Fitness. He met the trainers: Sif, a serious-faced alpha; Heimdall, a beta whose locs were truly something to envy; and Hogun, a beta whose tendency to speak softly made Bucky listen all the better. They welcomed him with open arms and easy camaraderie, and Bucky fell into the rhythm of the gym with nary a bump in the road.

Bucky’s belly now was undeniable, extended past the point of being able to wear his barely used jeans. Steve took Bucky out to maternity stores and dropped too much money on a couple pairs of jeans with that stretchy waistband, so Bucky didn’t wear sweatpants to his first day of work. Not that Val would mind. As Bucky came to understand within a day, she was one of the least uptight people on the planet.

“You can wear whatever you want,” she shrugged, when Bucky mentioned he wanted to look neat on his first day, “You can wear a bikini if that’s what makes you comfortable.”

Sometimes Bucky wore his prosthesis at work and other times he didn’t, but he always brought it and plugged it into the wall behind his desk just in case. He didn’t need it for a lot of the work; mostly, he checked in members or set folks up with their two-week free trial, with a little maintenance on the website and customer systems. He fielded phone calls and filed. For the most part, customer service, a little data entry, and a lot of chill – he loved it.

Better yet, Bucky made a little extra if he signed somebody up for a new membership.

(“Don’t feel pressured, though,” Val told him, “Do what you’re comfortable with. It’s about the fitness, not the sales margin.”)

When Bucky relayed this information to Steve, well.

“I’d like to start a membership,” Steve said, staring at Bucky from the other side of the desk, his gym duffel thrown over his shoulder and an obscene athletic shirt clinging to his triangular frame. The workout shirts plagued him at the apartment, but never before had Bucky been eye level with his pecs while he was wearing one. His shoulders crept closer to his ears and he folded his arms over his chest as though gearing up for an argument.

“Stevie,” Bucky said patiently, forcing his eyes up, “Don’t you already have a membership at that other place – the, uh. Um. Fuck. I can’t remember. Is this what they mean when they say ‘pregnancy brain’?”

“My membership there is up in a month,” replied Steve, and with a shit-eating grin added, “I thought I’d try something new.”

“Ohh-kay,” drawled Bucky, and pulled the membership agreement from the file box beside his computer. He placed it on the counter and dove into his spiel, “So, we’ve got a few options. There’s month-by-month membership, three month, six month, one year, and two year. Month-by-month costs-”

“I’ll do the two year,” Steve interrupted, knowing full fucking well that two-year agreements made Bucky around sixty dollars in commission.

Like that, Bucky signed Steve up for a two-year membership at Valkyrie Fitness. He snapped Steve’s picture for his membership ID and printed it for him, then entered the information from Steve’s membership forms into the database while out of the corner of his eye he watched Steve doing reps with his biceps bulging and sweat staining his stupid, painted-on t-shirt.

The lowkey atmosphere of Valkyrie Fitness enabled Bucky to squeeze in workouts of his own, so when Steve showed up on Bucky’s shift, they worked out together. Bucky couldn’t lift like he used to, but Steve didn’t make any cracks about it like he would have pre-Brock. The internet said weight training while pregnant was safer than pervasive rumors warned, and so he worked in short bursts, hoping to gain back some of the muscle he’d lost living with Brock.

And if Bucky couldn’t work out with Steve? Well. He could still watch Steve doing his thing, all sweaty and alpha, and that was a treat in itself. Steve’s scent conquered all others when he was in the building, earthy-spice making Bucky all moony-eyed and stupid.

Val definitely noticed, but refrained from commenting. Bucky appreciated that.

The second week into Bucky’s employment, Clint and Natasha appeared in their workout finest in front of Bucky’s desk. Clint, wearing a purple muscle shirt and a cocky grin, said, “Hey bro,” while Natasha cut to the chase and said, “We’d both like two-year memberships, please.”

“You...you guys literally work at a gym,” Bucky said, dumbfounded.

“So?” said Clint, “It’s nice to change it up sometimes. Besides, Val is the shit.”

“I’ll, uh, pass on the compliment,” Bucky replied, and passed to packets up to the them, “Um. Here’s the paperwork.”

Only a handful of days after Natasha and Clint, Sam Wilson showed up. A cross between the low-volume jealousy he’d been experiencing in relation to Steve’s new friendship, gratefulness that Sam helped in getting his things back from Brock, and befuddlement at his presence here now made a knot in Bucky’s throat. He couldn’t get out any words, just stared like an asshole.

“I’m doing this for Steve,” Wilson said, “Gimme one of them two-year things, Army. I’ll show you what an airman can do.”

And if Sam’s version of working out included a lot of smirking and finger guns in Bucky’s direction, that was fine. Sam was annoying, but he went all out for Steve, and that was the kind of friend that Steve deserved.

Bucky walked home from his shifts, happy now to be out in the city he loved. From time to time a tempting smell seduced him into a bodega, where he’d buy a churro or a sandwich or a slushie and chow down while he ambled back, now too obviously pregnant to pretend not to be. His back hurt sometimes, and his feet hurt more, and he hated when people grabbed at his stomach without asking, but overall working at Val’s replaced the sense of normalcy he needed in his life.

He wished someone told him that he would have as many aversions to food as cravings, that beloved hot dogs sent him running in the opposite direction while he craved weird candy he hadn’t eaten since childhood, like Bit-O-Honey. Who purposely bought Bit-O-Honey? Him, apparently. The belly didn’t prevent him from pulling a bag from the lowest shelf, not yet, but some random beta chick did feel the need to help, anyway. She bent before he could and passed the candy up to him with a smile on her face.

Were it Steve, Bucky might have snapped that he didn’t need his damn help, but he thanked the beta instead.

“Hey, congrats on the kid,” the beta said.

Bucky smiled a little and tried not to glow too much under the praise. “Thanks,” he replied, short and sweet.

Bucky wondered later if it was the baby belly or the prosthetic arm that prompted her into action.

With an open bag of Bit-O-Honey in hand and the railing in the other, he traipsed up the stairs to the apartment. He got the closing shift tonight, so Steve would be a mess like he always was when Bucky came through the door at near-ten at night, no matter how many times Bucky reminded Steve when his closing shifts were.

Navigating his key into the lock while fishing another candy from his bag was not an easy feat, and when Bucky dropped some of his candies at the same time that he opened the door, he didn’t retrieve them, mostly out of embarrassment.

When he trundled inside, the entire living room was rearranged.

“What the fuck,” Bucky said to empty air.

The hiss and patter of the shower broke up the silence as Bucky crept forward.

Steve had moved the couch against the far wall, wedging the bookcase into the corner to accommodate both pieces of furniture. Steve’s armchair now sat more in line with the television, next to a gigantic, circular thing that could be nothing other than a nest-couch. They were for expecting omegas or omegas that liked to nest during their heats – a huge round cushion, essentially, with a basic frame to keep its shape and a depressed center so an omega could fill their nest with things they liked.

You could grab one at IKEA for around three hundred bucks, but the piece in the living room boasted paneled cushions and a real, solid-wood frame.

Bucky dropped his backpack on the floor and wiped the sweat from his palm onto his jeans.

With a running jump, he leapt into the nest-couch full-force, and landed as though in a cloud. Along the edge, a series of arrows ran up a small control panel. Bucky prodded at one, and watched in awe as one section of the nest-couch reclined further back. At once he adjusted everything, testing his view of the television and the position he knew he was likely to nap in, as well as defining the nook he’d read in. He made sure wherever he landed that Steve would see him from the armchair, since Steve liked to draw him in the evenings, because Steve was a dweeb.

Beside the nest-couch, Bucky’s usual suspects for the blanket-and-cushion department were stacked neatly. He tore into them, pillowing the foundation and draping one of Sarah’s quilts over the bottom.

As Bucky was lining one edge with a chenille throw that smelled like Steve, the alpha in question stepped into the hallway, steam billowing from behind him and a towel slung low around his waist.

“I see you found the nest,” Steve observed.

“This is fucking awesome!” Bucky exclaimed, rolling in his under-construction nest that could now be permanent (!!). He leaned over the side and went on, “I’ll have to get Becca to throw something in it, get some family scent for the kiddo. You wanna toss a thing or two in here?”

Steve fidgeted, suddenly shy. He looked up at Bucky through his eyelashes and said, “I wasn’t sure you’d want me to.”

“Dude,” Bucky said, “Of course I want your scent in here. I mean. It kind of is already, since this is your stuff, but -”

“You need something more personal, I know,” Steve said, and when Bucky leveled a look at him he added, “I read about it in one of the baby books I bought, the one that’s for alphas so they don’t do anything stupid while their omegas are pregnant.”

Bucky’s heart fluttered at the suggestion that he might be Steve’s omega, but he shoved it down. Steve didn’t mean it like that, and he knew it.

Steve continued, “I already set aside what I’d put in there. You know. If you asked me. I’ll go get it, and, um, get dressed.” Bucky mourned the loss of Steve’s chest, which was pink with one of his full-body blushes. He tried not to ogle as Steve retreated to the bedroom and failed spectacularly, but hey, who cared? Steve wouldn’t know.

When Steve returned, his chest was woefully covered in an old t-shirt for a charity marathon, his legs were clad in sleep pants that left nothing to the imagination, and he twisted a wad of fabric between his hands. He passed it to Bucky, and when Bucky unrolled it, he found Steve’s baby blanket, the one that he pretended not to still sleep with for the entirety of their teenage years and no longer bothered to hide from Bucky, because they slept in the same bed.

“Steve,” he murmured, “You don’t – this is important.”

“So’s your nest,” Steve said, “Do you want me to find something else?”

“ _No_ ,” Bucky answered, probably too fast – but he didn’t care, “This is perfect. I already know where I’m going to put it.” He folded it in half and laid the small, threadbare blanket across the place he intended to most often rest his head, so Steve’s scent could always be near. He didn’t tell Steve that’s what that spot was, but it didn’t matter. Steve preened anyway.

After a beat of silence, Bucky mentioned, “This thing looks expensive.”

“Well, uh, actually,” Steve said, “It’s StarkTech, so -”

“It’s _StarkTech_?” Bucky gaped, “What the hell, Steve! I’m sitting on like thousands of dollars of tech right now.”

“If you’d let me finish,” Steve pointedly said, “I’m an employee, so StarkTech is discounted to us.”

“I didn’t even know Tony Stark made nest-couches,” Bucky muttered.

“Yeah, he started making them in like 2014,” Steve said, “He liked having them for his heats but couldn’t find any that he liked, so he made his own. He figured he wasn’t the only omega that could use one. Don’t look at me like that; it came with an informative pamphlet.”

“Tony Stark is my new favorite person,” Bucky decided, and spread-eagled across the width of his new, perfect, permanent nest.

**

By the time that Bucky’s twenty-week appointment rolled around, his Navy Fed account boasted a respectable nest egg, in no small part thanks to the band of his and Steve’s combined friends. Even Becca enrolled in a two-year membership at Valkyrie Fitness, despite being a poor college student.

“It’s not like you’d let me help any other way,” his sister had told him, and Bucky hated that she was right.

That Bucky’s support system survived his stint with Brock baffled and humbled him. He didn’t deserve to have such loyal friends, but he loved them nonetheless. He didn’t know how he’d make it through this pregnancy without them.

Especially Steve.

Always Steve.

True to form, Steve wanted to drive Bucky to his appointment, and wanted to be there with him. According to everything that Bucky read, the upcoming twenty-week appointment with Dr. Cho was a milestone as far as baby-brewing went. There’d be tests and a new ultrasound. If he wanted, he could find out the sex of the impending kiddo.

“I’m gonna do it,” Bucky decided.

From the driver’s seat, Steve asked, “Do what?”

“Find out,” Bucky clarified, “You know, the sex of the baby. I can do that this time around. I mean, I’m not gonna go hog-wild and get all the shit for the kid in blue or pink. I was actually thinking green? Assuming the kid has a nursery. Who the fuck knows? _Anyway_ , it’s more for naming purposes. Is that stupid? Am I forcing gender roles on my kid if I give them a name like William or – I don’t know – Samantha? Something with gender connotations.”

Steve tilted his head from side to side in consideration. “I don’t actually know,” he admitted, and went on to say, “I think if you had one of those reveal parties, maybe. But I know you wouldn’t stop the kid from experimenting with gender, which I think is what counts.”

“Oh, for sure,” agreed Bucky, “The kid can be who they want to be. What they wanna wear or play with – that’s gonna be up to them, as soon as they’re old enough to decide, I guess.” Bucky frowned, hand resting on the swell of his belly. “What if I ruin their life?”

“You’re not going to ruin their life.”

“Okay, yeah, but what if I do?” asked Bucky.

“Look,” Steve said, “The way I see it – and you know I’m not a parent, so I’m just spitballing here – the way I see it is every parent makes mistakes. Nobody’s perfect; that’s just human nature. I don’t know how this gonna turn out. Neither of us can see into the future. What I _do_ know is that you already love this kid. I already love this kid. All you can do is your best, and that you’re even considering all this says to me that you’re gonna make it. So if you find out today that you’re naming your kid William, but then they come and tell you that they’re actually Samantha, you’re gonna accept and love them no matter what. Correct me if I’m wrong, here.”

“No, you’re right,” Bucky responded, “I’m gonna love the shit outta this kid, no matter who they are.”

Steve smiled, though he didn’t take his eyes from the road. He reached over and draped his arm over Bucky, offering a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder. “This kid’s gonna be so lucky to have you.”

“You’re a sap,” Bucky told him, but the words warmed him. After a breath, he added, “I’m not actually naming them William or Samantha.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Those were just the first names off the top of my head.”

“Somehow, I managed to put that together.”

“I already have an uncle Bill; I can’t have a son named William.”

Steve snorted. “I know, Buck. I’ve met him. He’s a very nice man.”

Steve parked the car in one, smooth motion. He hustled over to help Bucky out, which was stupid, because Bucky wasn’t nearly big enough to need help getting around, even if he’d begun to slow down.

“Stop treating me like I’m made of glass,” complained Bucky, “I’m pregnant, not dying.”

Steve pouted the pout of an alpha thwarted, but didn’t argue. He did, however, hover a mere step behind as they took the elevator to Dr. Cho’s office.

Bucky removed his prosthesis for his check-in with the nurse who weighed him and directed him to do the whole peeing in the cup thing again, which proved difficult with his belly in the way. He hadn’t seen his dick in a month. He tolerated, barely, the borderline-invasive stuff that came with the territory of being knocked up.

By the time that Bucky shucked his pants and stuck his feet in the stirrups, his patience had run thin. He grit his teeth and fantasized about collapsing into his nest and napping for the rest of the day – maybe the rest of the week. He did have Steve beside him, though, and that made all the difference. He gripped Bucky’s hand like a lifeline, and Bucky gripped back.

At least, he mused, this ultrasound was external only. Bucky could do with fewer invasions of his personal bubble – whatever was left of it, anyway. Were it not for the bun in his oven, he’d kick up a hell of a lot more fuss at the poking and grabbing and sticking and hands all up on his person. He hated it when he returned from his tour, and he hated it now, with only slightly less ire.

With a gasp at the sensation of the gel, Bucky trained his eyes on the ultrasound screen. The kiddo was much larger than before, and far more human-shaped. In just a matter of weeks, Bucky grew that. He cooked up a human being with tiny hands and a little nose.

“We’ll be doing the three-dimensional ultrasound as well,” said the tech, “and hopefully we’ll be able to see the sex of the baby. If you’d like to know, of course.”

“Yeah, for naming purposes,” Bucky justified, and promptly felt weird for having done so. Steve squeezed his hand, a goofy smile on his face.

The 3D image of the kid tripped Bucky out a little. Seeing all the detail in his child’s face amazed him, from the closed eyelids and impossibly small fingers curled into loose fists. That was his, inside him, right now.

“Looks like you’ve got a little boy on your hands,” said the tech, voice bright.

“A boy,” repeated Bucky.

“We have a boy,” said Steve, and Bucky’s heart did that achey thing, because Steve had said _we_ , like they were mates, like this baby was theirs together.

Red colored Steve’s cheeks when he realized what he said, but Bucky didn’t tease him for it. He let the comment slide, and offered a goofy smile of his own.

With new ultrasound pictures in hand, Bucky and Steve shuffled out to the car. Steve asked for one of the pictures as shyly as he’d asked the time before, and tucked it in his wallet alongside the twelve-week image still nestled in the leather.

Bucky kept his copy of the photo out and scrutinized the small human as they drove back toward the apartment.

“This is amazing,” remarked Bucky, tracing the edge of his son’s face with the tip of one bionic finger. “I think I’m excited. I’m still worried I’m going to fuck him up beyond repair, but I’m excited.”

“I know I already said this, but I’m excited, too,” Steve said, “That’s a baby! A real baby!” He slapped the steering wheel for emphasis, and Bucky laughed.

When Bucky pictured his life as a teenager, this wasn’t how any of it went. He didn’t imagine a mate or babies, because he wasn’t even sure he wanted them. He dreamt up going to college, though what he intended to with that was an amorphous thing, and he never did finish his degree. He didn’t think he would join the Army, didn’t think he’d get blown up on behalf of his country, didn’t think he’d lose an arm. He didn’t think he’d fall victim to a slick, sweet-talking alpha, and he certainly never pictured being a single parent.

As he took in Steve’s sunny, bearded face and joyful scent, Bucky settled into his reality. He may not have pictured any of his life as it was, but as he stared at the ultrasound image in his hand and the grinning alpha beside him, he knew that there was nowhere else that he would rather be.


	9. Burning Me Up

**Chapter Nine**

**Chapter Track: Heart is a Weapon – We Are Scientists**

**_Burning Me Up_ **

 

The signs were all there.

First, Steve doubled down on the protective instinct that plagued him on a day to day basis. He purred Bucky to sleep. He piled new nesting materials beside the nest-couch. He handed Bucky food at every opportunity. He came home with treats from the bodega a block down the street and found himself standing in line at Bed, Bath & Beyond after work with soft, pretty blankets stacked in his arms.

Bucky eyeballed Steve and teased him for his behavior, but no more than usual.

Then came the hunger. The gaping maw of Steve’s stomach demanded sacrifice. He packed lunches twice as large to take with him to work. Thor congratulated him on an excellent appetite, while Darcy skeptically handed him three sausage breakfast sandwiches to-go two mornings in a row.

Bucky laughed at Steve over dinner and imitated Sarah Rogers’ voice saying, _Well, you’re a growing boy._

Steve’s mood plummeted. He couldn’t sketch without hating what bled from his pencil. He put off enough anger-scent for strangers to give him a wide berth on the subway and chase Bucky into the guest bedroom to hide. On Friday, Steve growled at Scott when he dropped paperwork off in his office. Humiliated by his own behavior, he apologized, but the damage was done. Scott told him not to worry about it, but avoided Steve for the rest of the workday.

The signs were _all_ there.

What Steve should have noticed before came to a head on Sunday afternoon in Valkyrie Fitness. Though Bucky didn’t have to work, they dropped by to squeeze in some strength training at Bucky’s insistence (“You need to work off some of your mood, Steve.”). While Bucky went for smaller, handheld weights, Steve opted to focus on putting his body to work on one of the rowing machines.

Valkyrie spotted them and slunk over to say hi, and that’s when everything went to hell.

Steve did not merely growl. No, a growl might have been acceptable after a contrite apology. What Steve did instead, as Val approached Bucky, was tear his body from the equipment and _roar_ , a challenge so loud that the mirrored wall behind the racks of weights rattled from the volume of it.

How dare this alpha speak to his omega! – so shouted the hazy mess of his brain.

“Steve, what the fuck?” demanded Bucky, and then his nose twitched. “Oh. Oh no.”

“I’m going to have to ask you guys to leave,” the challenging alpha – no, Val – said, but before Steve could again roar his displeasure, his omega appeared at his side, hand curling around Steve’s bicep.

Something about Bucky’s scent assuaged the static of Steve’s mind, so when his omega said, “All right, big guy. Let’s get you back home, okay?”

“Okay,” his mouth agreed.

His omega was so smart.

“You’re so smart,” he said, as they walked away from the challenging alpha. Steve didn’t like her. She wanted _his_ omega. He couldn’t let that happen.

Outside, the city air cleared Steve’s nostrils, but the alleys still stank of rogue scent-markers and alpha passersby. He didn’t like it. Not one bit. A low rumble began in his chest.

“Breathe in, Steve,” Bucky ordered. He tugged Steve over so his nose rested in his omega’s neck, and patted the back of his head. “You’re going into rut. We’re gonna go home and you can take a cold shower or somethin’. We’ll take it from there. Does that sound good?”

Rut? Oh no. Dread suffused him even through the fog. The past few days slotted into place – never being able to care for Bucky as much as he wanted, the desperate hunger, the acidic frustration with even the smallest inconvenience.

“Oh no,” was all that Steve could manage.

“You’ll be fine,” his omega – no, it was Bucky. _Jesus, Steve, the man doesn’t belong to you_ – assured him, “The walk home is only fifteen minutes, okay? I know you can do that for me.”

For Bucky? Steve perked up. He would do anything for Bucky.

Listening to Bucky might have gone better had the _thing_ not attacked. A cherry-red monster rumbled like an alpha at them, strutting down the street like it owned the place. How dare it insult his omega in such a way – to threaten an omega in a delicate condition such as Bucky’s – Steve would not have it.

Steve ripped out of Bucky’s grasp and chased the beast. His muscles burned with effort as he encroached on it, and he released another roar to let the challenger know that their behavior would not be tolerated. With a heave of breath, Steve wound up and shot across the remaining distance between him and the beast. He collided full-force with the back of it, and only then did Steve snap back to reality, just in time to topple back onto his ass in the middle of the street.

The car – oh, God, a car – he’d headbutted screeched to a stop. The hazard lights flicked on.

Behind him, Bucky came running as fast as his legs could carry him, soles of his gym shoes smacking against the pavement with a desperate rhythm. He skidded to a stop at Steve’s side, panting, and rested his bionic hand on Steve’s shoulder as the driver of the car stepped out.

A man of middling height approached them, brows lifted high over his tinted sunglasses. The quality of his suit suggested wealth, and a lot of it.

Steve was absolutely fucked.

“I am so sorry,” Bucky said, “He literally just went into rut, like, five minutes ago.”

A cursory sniff to the air told Steve this man was an omega. The stranger crossed his arms over his chest, looked Bucky up and down, and said, “I know you.”

“You what?” Bucky said.

“I know you,” repeated the strange omega, “You’re one of the five, right? The first omegas to see combat. I read about you. Didn’t realize you lost your arm, though. That’s a damn shame. Hey, I bet I could build you a better one. Would that be – oh, shit, wait, is your alpha okay?”

“He’s not my alpha,” Bucky said, at the same time that Steve clutched his forehead and answered, “Fine.”

“Not your...right,” drawled the stranger, “Don’t worry about the car. I’ll get it fixed back up real quick,” and he offered his hand. When Bucky shook it, the stranger went on to add, “I’m Tony. Stark.”

“Oh, fuck,” cursed Steve.

“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky complained, “Now this is like ten times more embarrassing.”

“What, ‘cause I’m famous?” asked Tony.

“No, because he fucking works for you,” Bucky said.

“Don’t tell him that,” said Steve.

“You do?” Tony said, brows back above the sunglasses, “Oh, this is great. This is fantastic. I can’t wait to tell Pepper about this. What department are you in? What do you do?”

“He does concept art and drafting,” Bucky replied on Steve’s behalf.

Tony chewed on his lip for a second, and then brightened, “Steve...Rogers? Steve Rogers, right?”

“That’s him, yeah,” confirmed Bucky.

Steve wanted the street to open up and swallow him whole. Never in a million years had he imagined, even with his irregular cycle, that he’d not only go into rut in public, but that he’d lose his fucking marbles because he was with his best friend, who happened to be an omega, and who also happened to be pregnant, and therefore Steve would ram his head into his boss’s car. While Tony Stark no longer held the title of CEO, he was the head of technology and design. His inventions were the heart of the company.

He was Steve’s boss, and Steve had headbutted his car.

Tony gesticulated in excited, jerky movements. He said, “You make my designs look so badass! It’s like, one second it’s my machine, and the next, it’s some scifi shit. Remember the arc reactors the city was ho-humming connecting to the grid? You drew this, like, digital masterpiece of the reactors glowing under the water right next to Lady Liberty? With the whole cityscape in the background? It was like magic. Grown men were filled with wonder. I gave you a raise after that, didn’t I? I did, right?”

Weakly, Steve said, “Yeah, you did.”

“Good. Excellent. Great to finally meet you. Sorry about your rut, though. That sucks.”

“Sorry about your car,” mumbled Steve, too mortified to do anything but stare at his legs sprawled out across the asphalt. His brain swam and his nostrils burned. Tony didn’t smell quite as any omega off the street did. He wasn’t sweet-smelling, but rather smelled like concrete after rain, only the finest edge of omega underlying it. He was not, however, the omega he wanted to be smelling.

At his back, the pine-sap aroma of Bucky smoothed his ruffled feathers. God, he wanted to live in that scent.

Like a disc skipping, Steve’s brain couldn’t remember how he’d gotten on the ground or why he wasn’t wrapped up in his omega.

No. No, not his omega. Why couldn’t he remember that?

Ants crawled in his veins. His body screamed at him to rut. Steve let his head loll back against Bucky’s leg and said, “I’m gonna – I think I wanna fuck everything. Please don’t let me fuck everything.”

“I...wasn’t planning on it?” Bucky said.

A low whistle drew Steve’s attention back to Tony, whose face was open with a wide grin full of the whitest teeth he’d ever seen.

“You look like a toothpaste commercial,” Steve told him, sagely.

“Oohkay, buddy,” Bucky said, “I think it’s really time to get you home. Uh...Mr. Stark, do you need our info? For the car?”

“No, no, don’t worry about that,” Tony said, “I might have my people get in touch with you about the whole arm thing, though. I haven’t done prosthetic limbs before, but you can bet your ass I’d do ‘em better than what you’ve got.”

“Thank you? I think?” Bucky said.

“You’re welcome,” Tony answered, “You and Sir Knottingham want a lift? He seems kinda, um, fucky.”

“God, yes,” Bucky said.

The last shred of Steve’s intelligence hoped they got home soon.

**

Bucky marveled at the stench that was Steve in a rut. He smelled the same as he might usually, except there was far more of it than usual, the difference between a spritz of Febreze and dumping an entire bottle on oneself.

The worst part, of course, was that Bucky loved it. He could see Tony Stark eyeing them in the rearview mirror.

Not that Bucky blamed him. By all accounts, this would, in the future, be a hilarious anecdote for Bucky to tell at parties. Or, he supposed, parent-teacher meetings, or something. He’d say, “There I was, trying to get Steve home, when he loses his goddamned mind and rams his idiot melon into the back of a car. And this was not merely any car. No, this car belonged to Tony fucking Stark, who also happened to be Steve’s boss.”

Now, Steve had his nose stuffed into Bucky’s neck and his hand on Bucky’s belly. He mumbled nonsense, half-formed thoughts like “nice baby” and “favorite person” and “I’m really stupid right now” - all right, the last one made sense, and the fact that Steve knew it meant he wasn’t too far gone to reason with.

Bucky had seen Steve in a rut before, but never one this bad. Due to the nature of Steve’s questionable childhood health, his ruts came at sporadic and inopportune moments – in the middle of ninth-grade chemistry class, at a Mets game at nineteen, getting pizza at a dive after a night of drinking – and Steve never, not even once, learned to read the signs.

“Here, it’s right here,” Bucky told Tony, who slammed on the brakes hard enough to smack both Steve and Bucky against the black leather seats.

“Cool. Uh, kid? You gonna be okay with this guy?” Tony asked. He kept facing forward, didn’t turn to look at Bucky as he asked.

“What?” said Bucky, and then, “Oh. He’s my best friend. He’s not gonna try anything. I’ve been down this road like at least eight times with him.”

“Irregular ruts?”

“Yeah, it’s a nightmare,” Bucky said, “I think it’s wonkier ‘cause I’m up the duff.”

“I love our son,” Steve put in.

“See?” Bucky waved his flesh hand at Steve, “No idea what he’s saying. It’s fine. I’ll toss him in the shower and give him some space. He’ll make it through.”

“If you’re sure,” Tony said, and then added, “I’ll call you about the arm thing.”

As Tony left them standing on the sidewalk and sped away, Bucky wondered how he’d manage that without Bucky’s phone number. Oh well. His bionic prosthetic worked fine.

Getting Steve up the stairs proved a challenge, as he didn’t want to pull his face away from Bucky’s throat, and Bucky couldn’t carry Steve’s weight on his back. He eased Steve away and said, “You can scent me more when we’re inside, okay? For now, I need you to walk on your own. You reading me, Cave Man?”

“Do anything you need,” managed Steve.

The second that the front door snapped shut, Steve shoved his nose right back into Bucky’s neck. Bucky sighed, patting the space between Steve’s shoulder blades, and inched toward the bathroom.

There, with his idiot alpha still pressed against his side, he drew a bath, ice-fucking-cold so he could get not-rut Steve back for a minute, long enough to explain the game plan for the next couple of days. He struggled to untangle Steve from his tight gym shirt. The jogging pants were easier to yank from his narrow hips, down with his boxer-briefs.

Bucky had seen Steve naked many, many times. Locker rooms, skinny dipping, the reality of living in a teeny-tiny apartment with little personal space – few things were forbidden between them in terms of intimacy. This was what pushed Bucky’s parents to hum and sigh and complain about Bucky not dating Steve, as though Bucky hadn’t had the same thoughts over and over. He would say, “No, Steve doesn’t think of me that way,” and his mother would insist he reveal his feelings.

“You’ll never know if you don’t try,” Winnie would say.

And Bucky would respond, “And risk ruining our friendship? Fuck that.” He’d get a cuff to the ear for swearing, but his point stood.

Still, with Steve’s rut-scent pouring from him and a half-hard alpha cock resting between his muscled thighs, Bucky struggled to remember why he hadn’t discussed his feelings for Steve. This second trimester bullshit already made him randy as all hell for no good reason, and this was...not helping. With a long breath through his mouth, Bucky tore his gaze from Steve’s goods and pitched him into the tub.

The water splashed over the lip and onto the laminate floor. Steve gasped, eyes going wide, and exclaimed, “Bucky, what the fuck!”

“Don’t you ‘what the fuck’ me, Steven Grant,” Bucky chided, “We need to talk about how the hell we’re gonna handle this.”

Steve let his head fall back against the tiled wall with a _thunk_. “Fuck,” he said, “I’m in rut.”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” agreed Bucky, “So what are we going to do about it?”

“I guess you sleep in the guest bed again,” Steve said, “So I can masturbate and cry.”

“Yeah, all right,” said Bucky, though he would mourn the loss of a solid, rumbling chest against his back and the scratch of a beard on top of his head, “That’s fair. You’re gonna need more food than we have. How’re we handling that?”

“Call in reinforcements,” Steve grumbled, “Get Tasha and Clint to go on a grocery run. Everything else is gonna have to be takeout. Christ, it’s freezing in here. Can you get my phone? I’ve gotta call work for my rut leave.”

“Go team?” Bucky said, hesitant.

Steve exhaled and held out one fist. When Bucky bumped it, he echoed, “Go team.”

**

The game plan worked for a single day. Steve holed up in his bedroom and locked the door while Tasha and Clint brought armfuls of groceries and helped Bucky put them away. After they left, Bucky lounged in his nest and watched space documentaries at full volume for a couple hours and did his best to ignore the obvious scent of Steve getting off down the hall.

Second trimester horniness was no joke. His dick would not stop stirring with interest.

Eventually, Bucky gave up. He hosed down the bathroom with a spray bottle of scent-neutralizers, then climbed into the shower and jerked off until he had a shame orgasm and clean hair.

By the time that Bucky finished drying off and redressed in softer clothes, dinner time rolled around. He shuffled through the kitchen and built the best possible rut-meal that he could, complete with a well-seasoned steak an inch thick and an entire pile of crispy sautéed vegetables. With a tower of food, an enormous glass of orange juice, and two bottles of Gatorade piled onto a large cutting board, Bucky knocked on Steve’s bedroom door with his knee.

“Hey, buddy,” he called gently, “Food time.”

“Give me a second,” said Steve’s voice, hoarse, like he’d swallowed a mug full of gravel.

After several clunking noises, Steve opened the door in his boxer-briefs, distended by his knot. Red stained his body from tip-to-toe in that full body blush that Bucky tried not to swoon over like an omega in a Victorian penny-dreadful. Sweat shined on his chest and soaked his hair, which haloed his head in a lion’s-mane disaster. Steve swayed in place and his stomach howled.

“Go stand over there,” Bucky ordered, inclining his head at the far-left of the room, “and I’ll put this down.”

Steve nodded, eyes falling closed, and muddled over to put a safe distance between them. Bucky stepped into what could only, unfortunately, be described as moist air. The thick aroma of alpha arousal hung around their bodies, a miasma of pheromones. Bucky sneezed several times in a row, hiding them in his shoulder so he wouldn’t sneeze on Steve’s dinner.

“Thank you, Bucky,” said Steve, who was probably only semi-lucid, probably because he’d pulled one out minutes before Bucky got to his door.

“You got it,” he said, and placed the makeshift-tray on the nightstand. “I’m gonna leave a couple gallons of water outside your door before I hit the hay. Make sure you take those. I don’t want to take you to the hospital because you were too stubborn to hydrate. Are you even listening to me?”

Steve slouched against the wall, arm thrown over his eyes. He didn’t budge, merely groused, “I’m listening. Please fuck off and let me masturbate in peace.”

“Jeez, touchy,” Bucky muttered, and left Steve to misery-eat and keep handling himself.

That night, Bucky went to bed in a room filled with his own stale scent, less pregnant-smelling than he was now. He borrowed a couple blankets from his nest to keep warm but without the body heat of Steve surrounding him, he shivered under the covers.

Nightmares pained him in sleep. Bucky woke several times, but never could he remember what he’d been dreaming. Only a faint impression of terror remained when he woke, a fear of something missing and off-kilter. These nightmares weren’t the same as the ones that followed getting blown up overseas. This was different, more ambiguous.

When Bucky brought breakfast to Steve the next morning, both of them wore deep shadows under their eyes. Steve didn’t say anything to him this time. He let Bucky set food on the nightstand, waved him out, and shut the door with a decisive click.

The arrangement stopped working at exactly 1:54 in the afternoon. Bucky shambled to the bathroom to pee for the hundredth time, and when he emerged, a soft, gut-wrenching noise sounded from Steve’s bedroom. He edged closer and pressed his ear to the door. Inside, Steve was sobbing – actively _sobbing_. The omega in Bucky panicked instantly.

He rapped on the door. “Stevie, are you okay? Can I come in?”

“S’not locked.”

Bucky bustled into the room. On the bed, Steve lay on his side curled into himself. Tracks of tears coursed down his cheeks. Red and snotty, he didn’t bother to stifle the noise of his crying. Bucky lowered his body to sit on the edge of the mattress and threaded his fingers through Steve’s longish hair.

“Hey,” he said, “What’s going on? What’s this about?”

“It hurts,” cried Steve, “It hurts and nothing’s stopping it. This is the worst rut I’ve ever had. I don’t know what to do.”

Bucky stroked Steve’s head. He considered, for a horrifying second, telling Steve that he would be willing to help.

That wouldn’t work. He’d make everything awkward between them. Besides, taking advantage of Steve’s desperation during rut was a sleazy-ass move. He wouldn’t lower himself to that. If he ever fortified and admitted he felt something for Steve (Which he would not, thank you very much), they’d be one-hundred percent. No compromised positions; only themselves.

“Maybe you could use RutSync?” suggested Bucky, “Or go to Heat Lounge? I can drive you. It’s not too far.”

RutSync, as a review stated in _Entertainment Weekly_ , was Tinder on steroids. The app made no qualms in telling the public what it was about: finding a partner for your heat or rut. Folks used the app either during their pre-heats/ruts, establishing a time or place to meet ahead of the event, or used the premium option titled appropriately “I’M SUFFERING” to find a more immediate partner.

Heat clubs existed far longer than handy apps. The first heat clubs cropped up in the sixties, though back then daring to go to one could still get you arrested. By the eighties people stopped caring as much, at least the general public – the religious right screamed fire and brimstone at anyone that dared try to slake their heats or ruts outside of mating, but what didn’t they scream about?

Bucky’d used both RutSync and Heat Lounge before, with mixed results. Some alphas did an awesome job and left him loose and fucked out, others curbed the heat only long enough for Bucky to find someone better.

But hell, an alpha like Steve would only need a couple of minutes on either platform to find a willing omega. Jealousy flared in Bucky at the idea, which was ridiculous. Steve was not his alpha, and did not belong to him. He didn’t deserve to be crying in bed because his rut sucked so much.

“Don’t wanna,” Steve whined, “Don’t want anybody else.”

“All right,” Bucky said slowly, and though he couldn’t understand why Steve was so goddamned stubborn and didn’t want to share his horrible rut with another person, he could respect his decision. He knew Steve identified as demisexual, but surely a bad rut would make an exception to the rule? Maybe not. “What do we do, then?”

“I think you need to go,” sniffed Steve.

Bucky’s heart skipped into his throat. “What?” he said.

“It’s not _you_ ,” Steve went on, “It’s my instincts. My brain is hollering at me ‘cause there’s a pregnant omega near. Can you – could you stay with Clint and Tasha, maybe? That way the smell’s not so strong and I can deal with this shit without embarrassing myself.”

His stomach sank, but Bucky swallowed his hurt feelings and shoved them into a box where they wouldn’t cause trouble. He didn’t stop petting Steve’s head, but surrendered, “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll text Clint and pack a bag.”

And that’s what he did. Bucky carefully packed, overpacked, and told Clint he’d need to crash on their couch for a few days while Steve rode out his rut. Longingly, Bucky frowned at his nest, knowing how badly he’d miss it. His hand hovered over the soft indent where he liked to rest his head, on the ratty baby blanket that Steve treasured so much. He hesitated, eyes darting back to Steve’s bedroom door, then peeled the blanket off of the top of the nest and stuffed it into his overnight bag.

Clint arrived, but before Bucky left, he lectured through Steve’s door: “Make sure you’re eating three times a day at least, and definitely make sure that you’re hydrating. There are gallon jugs of water on the bottom shelf in the fridge. I’ll text you to remind you, just in case. Do you need anything before we take off?”

“No,” Steve’s voice said, “Tell Clint I said hi.”

“Hi, Steve,” Clint called from over Bucky’s shoulder, “Good luck with your rut.”

“Thanks, I hate it,” replied Steve.

Bucky left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve headbutting a car is an idea I got from a nature documentary that described deer in rut fighting cars, and though I couldn't find a video that showed the same thing, [here's an article describing it.](http://www.examiner.net/article/20150926/sports/150929082)


	10. From Me to You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this chapter took longer than usual to post. It's been a very, v e r y long week for yours truly.
> 
> Warning: this chapter mentions the non-consensual nature of Brock and Bucky's relationship.

**Chapter Ten**

**Chapter Track: Crosseyed – The Morning Benders**

**_From Me to You_ **

 

Bucky tried not to smell too dejected in the passenger seat of Clint’s beloved 1970 Dodge Challenger, but from Clint’s pointed silence, he knew he wasn’t doing too well on that front. He understood why Steve asked him to leave, but understanding on a logical level did nothing to appease the omega instinct that screamed at him to go back and take care of his alpha, his pack.

Steve didn’t want him. Bucky knew that. He always had, but man, this pregnancy made his inner omega scream like a caged tiger.

“I was thinking we’d do something lowkey tonight,” Clint said, “We can play some Mario Kart and order in. What’re you craving these days?”

“We can just do pizza,” Bucky said, knowing full well that’s what Clint wanted to hear.

Clint didn’t take the bait. He frowned a little as he slowed to a stop at a red light, and replied, “I asked what you wanted, not what I wanted. Tasha’s tired of pizza, anyway. Listen, I know you don’t want to talk about it, but -”

“I’m not gonna talk about it,” Bucky confirmed, “He doesn’t want me there. That’s it. End of story.”

Bucky couldn’t decide if alpha rejection stung more than alpha violence. What an awful thought, to compare Steve to Brock, but he couldn’t help it. Brock’s ruts were brutal, bloodthirsty things. He didn’t even attempt to hold onto a piece of his conscious self, nothing like the way that Steve held his mind in an iron grip. Brock’s rut unleashed the worst parts of his personality. Bucky learned submissive ways to appease him, to try and bring back the man from the beast, but the ruts always ended the same way, no matter what he tried.

Brock told Bucky that it was his duty as an omega to submit to him, to care for him during his rut.

In the present, Bucky let his eyes shutter closed. He could pretend Brock didn’t force him, but he had. Brock held Bucky down and made him take his knot. After, Bucky would lie beneath Brock’s body, oozing shame, because he hadn’t bothered to fight back. The idea that he should be fighting back terrified him. He didn’t want to think of Brock that way.

How had he been so blind?

In the present, Steve’s rejection burned in his gut. He knew Steve didn’t want to have sex with him; that was fine. Bucky wished, though, that Steve had let him stay. That blind omega instinct told him to care for Steve, to carry him through his rut as best he was able.

The idea that Steve might use RutSync or give in and prowl at the Heat Lounge twisted his insides into knots. Bucky knew he didn’t own Steve, but the notion poisoned him, making his bloodstream sting. He hated this. He hated everything about this.

“Okay,” Clint said, “You don’t have to talk about it. That’s fine. But are you going to be okay?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky said, strangled, “It’s like _my_ alpha rejected me, but it’s just Steve. I don’t understand. I feel sick to my stomach, but we’re not even mates. This is bullshit.”

Bucky didn’t like the assessing look that Clint raked over him before he pressed down on the gas pedal. Rather than address anything Bucky said, Clint asked, “So, food?”

Grumpily, Bucky conceded, “Indian sounds pretty awesome right now.”

“Cool, Tasha’ll love that,” Clint said.

The rest of the car ride passed in silence. Bucky stewed over the separation sickness in his brain, because this could be nothing else. Maybe pregnancy caused him to imprint on Steve like a duckling. Maybe the presence of a child required he find a suitable alpha to help care for the baby. He didn’t actually know if any of that checked out scientifically, but it sounded right in his head. He didn’t tell Clint any of it. He didn’t know what Clint would have to say, but he assumed he wouldn’t like it.

After Clint and Natasha moved in together, the quality of Clint’s life improved dramatically. His apartment no longer looked like the bachelor pad-slash-depression den from hell. By no means was Natasha neat as a pin, but she did, from time to time, put things away.

Quirky, Russian knickknacks lined the kitchen and living room shelves: a handful of matryoshka dolls, bizarre ceramic figurines of animals in peasant clothing, painted wooden cups and boxes, and glass toadstools. Clint’s stuff, meanwhile, mingled in the corners of the place, mostly archery paraphernalia and posters of classic rock bands, the latter of which used to be haphazardly taped to any given vertical surface but post-Natasha lived in practical frames and strategic places.

This wasn’t home, but it managed to be closer to home than Brock’s place ever was.

“You can sleep in my nest, if you want,” offered Clint. At Bucky’s skeptical look, he added, “We wash it, come on. Heat scent gets gross after a while.”

Clint’s nest-couch did originate from IKEA. It was a big, cushy thing with a cheap metal frame and a giant, purple cushion more akin to a beanbag chair than an actual couch. He lined his nest with blankets covered in cartoon characters, one special quilt Natasha brought to the United States when she was adopted as a child (Bucky met her adoptive father, Nick Fury, only once. He was a beta with alpha presence and a thousand-yard stare that could level cities), and an array of novelty stuffed animals lifted from the carnival games that traveled with the circus Clint grew up in.

Clint’s dog, Lucky, greeted Bucky the moment that they ambled inside, tail wagging wildly.

Bucky bent to pet the dog and told him what a good boy he was, and Lucky rewarded him with several floor-smacking tail thumps and a wide, lolling grin. Natasha’s cat Liho watched from her perch on top of the refrigerator, tail absently flicking from side to side.

“Bucky says he wants Indian,” Clint said.

Natasha looked up from her laptop, on which what looked to be one of those point-and-click hidden object games glowed on the screen. She set the laptop on their coffee table and stretched, cat-like. “Good to see you, Barnes,” she said, “How’s the baby going?”

“Oh, yeah! We – uh, I mean, I’m having a boy,” Bucky said, “I haven’t decided what to call him, but I was thinking something classic and old-timey. That stuff’s coming back, you know.”

“Bartholomew,” Clint blurted.

“Fuck no,” responded Bucky.

“Aw, you’re no fun,” Clint said, but he couldn’t bite back his grin as he spoke.

They didn’t order food right away. Instead, Natasha and Clint helped settle Bucky into the area around Clint’s nest, moving a handful of Tasha’s ceramic figurines so he had a place to put away the clothing he’d brought. They knew the importance of home, of settling, to an omega, how being transient mangled the pathways in their brains and fucked them up. Clint worked through boggled instincts every day, though being the caretaker of an entire building of people seemed to satisfy his care-thirsty hindbrain.

When Bucky asked Clint how he juggled several jobs at once, Clint answered, “Well, I was in the circus.”

Neither Natasha nor Clint deigned to comment when Bucky spread Steve’s baby blanket carefully over an ideal spot in Clint’s nest. The nest wouldn’t smell right, he knew, but at least with Steve’s scent on it, it wouldn’t smell wrong, either.

His son, already a little shit, decided to take a seat directly on Bucky’s bladder, and thus Bucky became reacquainted with Clint and Natasha’s bathroom before cozying up in Clint’s nest. Nat quit the game on her laptop to join Bucky and her mate in a Mario Kart smackdown. Being out of practice and fighting against his prosthesis, Bucky didn’t do so hot, but he did enjoy his friends sniping at one another. Natasha was vicious with her blue shells, and ended up in first place more often than not, much to Clint’s chagrin.

After a few races, Natasha decided to take a break to call in their food order, and when she returned, she sternly ordered Bucky, “Give me your feet.”

“What?” he said.

“Your feet. Give me them. I’m going to paint your nails.”

“Oh. All right. Can I pick the color?”

Natasha passed him a basket of nail polish, which he sorted through with a critical eye before he selected silver. While he and Clint battled it out, she held his legs still and painted his toenails. Being tended to by an alpha felt good, nice, even if she designed the attention to draw Bucky’s thoughts away from Steve and the gutter that was Bucky’s self-esteem. Her touch and scent reassured him, and the baby settled a little.

Still, Bucky wondered if his tiny son could sense that all was not right in the world. Could a fetus miss Steve like Bucky missed Steve? Could it feel the rejection as keenly as Bucky did? Though his mood no longer lit his body with pain, the rejection hijacked his brain. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t win any races against Clint, and couldn’t even enjoy his shiny toenails.

When the food came, Bucky barely tasted it.

Over some chicken tandoori, he grumbled, “Why the fuck is my brain like this?”

“Like what?” Clint asked, mouth full.

“ _This_ ,” Bucky emphasized with a sweep of his hand, “Me and Steve aren’t together, but the alarm bells are screaming at me to get back to him. What is going on? Is this ‘cause I’m pregnant? Did they cover this in sex ed and I just forgot? I don’t get it.”

“Do you want an honest answer?” asked Natasha. She perched on the couch like a throne, and even in her sweatpants and a shirt of Clint’s, she projected an enviable air of regality.

“Uh,” Bucky stalled, “I guess so. Go ahead.”

“You may not have a bite on your neck, but you and Steve are mated,” Natasha said. Bucky opened his mouth to argue, but she held up a single finger to silence him and continued, “Everything he does is what an alpha does for their omega. Everything you do is what an omega does for an alpha. God knows you two aren’t having sex – though we’d all appreciate if you did, already – but sex doesn’t make mates. Intimacy does, and sex is not the end all-be all of intimacy. It’s only a small piece of it.”

“You’re wrong,” Bucky said, “Steve doesn’t see me like that and he never has. It’s been me and my feelings since the dawn of time, and if you think I’m gonna mess with that now, you’re out of your mind.”

“What do you mean, ‘since the dawn of time’?” asked Clint.

Bucky put his face in the palm of his prosthesis. He said quietly, “I don’t like talking about this.”

“Maybe you should talk about it, though,” Natasha murmured, and tucked into her lamb vindaloo as though it had personally insulted her.

“I’ve loved Steve as long as I can remember,” Bucky told them, “I don’t even remember when it changed. I just remember one day I was lookin’ at him and I thought, that’s it. He’s it for me. And then I remembered that’s not how we are. We never were. We never will be. He’s my best friend in the whole world, but that’s where it ends. He deserves a mate that’s – you know. Whole.”

“Dude,” Clint said, “That’s messed up.”

“You think I don’t know that? I’m not all there in the head, you know. Iraq did some shit to me and Brock made it all worse. I didn’t used to be this way. I’m...a burden. I was lucky that anybody wanted me anymore after I came back from my tour. Brock gave me a home even though...” Bucky trailed off. The things that Brock told him weren’t true. He knew that, mostly. Sort of.

Getting Brock’s voice out of the back of his head wasn’t that simple, though.

Especially after Steve pushing him away today.

Steve took care of him. Steve loved Bucky, in his own way. But he didn’t _love_ Bucky, not the way that Bucky wanted to be loved by Steve.

The chance that someone might love Bucky in the way that mates loved one another whittled down to nothing since he returned from overseas. He lost his arm. He lost his mind. He got fucked over by an alpha so bad the wires in his brain were tangled like a 1990s VCR to its television set. Now, he’d be a single parent. Not a single redeeming quality existed for somebody to admire in him, not attractiveness, not personality, not anything. He’d lost it all.

Bucky shook his head. He said, “Look. My point is that I’m not all right. Even if Steve were interested in me – which he _is not_ – he’d still deserve someone better.”

Natasha slid her plate onto the coffee table and crossed one leg over the other, folding her hands together in her lap. She said, “Not to put too fine a point on it, but you’re wrong.”

“You’re fucked up, but so’s Steve,” shrugged Clint.

“Steve is not fucked up,” Bucky protested.

“Yeah, he is. Everyone is. Steve’s great at hiding that he’s messed up, but he’s angry and stubborn and thinks that everything ever in the world is his responsibility. You know he swoops low sometimes. That, and he always thinks he’s right. He’s at least a little fucked up,” with a fluttering wave of his hand, Clint went on, “Besides, he’s into you too.”

Bucky snorted.

Natasha tutted at him. “Think about it,” she said, “When was the last time Steve dated anyone?”

“Peggy, in high school, but he’s demisexual,” Bucky said, “He’s not like you or me. He takes a while to find the right people. He doesn’t even like having sex with people he doesn’t care about. He says it makes him feel weird.”

“Have you considered that the right person he’s waiting for might be you?” asked Tasha.

“Stop,” Bucky finally said, “Just stop. I know you’re trying to help, but all you’re doing is making me feel shittier because I know Steve and I know he’s not into me. He cares about me, but he has to do all kinds of stuff for me that no one should have to do. People like a helpless omega, but not this helpless.” Bucky smacked his prosthesis for emphasis.

“Bro,” was all that Clint said.

“I’d still like to you to think about it,” Natasha crisply stated.

Bucky scowled at them. He said, “I thought the whole point of this was so I wouldn’t think about Steve.”

“The point of this is giving Steve space for his rut,” Natasha said.

Bucky opened his mouth to say that Clint and Natasha knew Steve rejected him, knew that Steve sent him away, and knew that his brain thought he and Steve were mates, and that’s why they were simultaneously bothering him about it and trying to distract him, as friends often did. But maybe they didn’t understand. They loved each other. They were mates. Their bites were non-traditional, on their hips instead of their necks (and that as an alpha Natasha had a bite at all was unusual), but they were mates.

They couldn’t understand the way that Steve and Bucky worked. No one did. Not his friends, not his family, not Brock, no one but Bucky and Steve themselves understood the symbiosis between them.

“You don’t get it,” Bucky decided upon saying, “No one does.”

**

Bucky languished at work three days later, exhausted from the poor-quality sleep he’d been getting, irritated because he already needed to pee even though he went to the restroom less than half an hour ago, and sweaty because he channeled his low-burning rage into a workout during his lunch break and didn’t have time to shower before it was over. He still slapped on his customer service face when he needed to, but from the tight smiles of the customers, he knew it wasn’t working as well as it should have.

His phone buzzed during a quiet stretch between customers. Bucky reached over to tell whoever it was to fuck off, but Steve’s dorky face greeted him over a text message notification.

 

 **[2:07 PM] Steve Rogers:** Hey, Buck, I think the coast is clear. I’m gonna throw a bunch of stuff in the wash and get one of those plug-in diffusers, but come back whenever.

 **[2:08 PM] Steve Rogers:** It’ll be good to have you back.

 **[2:08 PM] Bucky Barnes:** at work til 5

 

Bucky made to text more, but decided to leave it there. Anything he texted now would be grumpy and passive-aggressive. _So glad you want me back now. Tell me again how it’s my home too? Oh, wait, it’s not, because you kicked me out of it._

As he stewed in his emotions, a grease-stained paper sack landed in front of him. Bucky jerked back. Above him stood Valkyrie in her typical workout gear, one eyebrow all the way up. She said, “You’re freaking everyone out with your sad omega smell. I can’t bring you alcohol, so I brought you some cheese fries.”

Bucky snatched up the bag and tore it open. Still-steaming, wonderful, cheese-coated, salty fries met him and the smell was divine. He stuffed one in his mouth and it melted, the perfect amount of grease on his tongue. He said around the food in his mouth, “You’re the best boss in the world.”

Val chuckled. “Yeah, I know,” she replied, “Don’t mention it. Whatever it is, I hope it gets better. You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said, but was too concerned with his cheese fries to give in to vanity.

At Bucky’s behest, Clint and Natasha dropped by the gym with his belongings packed back into his bag, so he didn’t have to double back all the way to Bed-Stuy only to return to Flatbush. While they were there they worked out together, and Bucky fondly watched Natasha sit cross-legged on Clint’s back while he did push-ups, playing another one of her hidden object games on her phone.

At the end of his shift, Bucky hefted his overnight bag over his shoulder and waved goodbye to Val and the trainers before he waddled out to walk home. Despite the added burden of his things against his side, he made his usual pitstop at the bodega between work and home, collecting his Bit-O-Honey with more excitement than he’d been able to muster in days.

By the time that Bucky made it to the building and up the stairs, he panted with effort. Rather than dig around in his bag for his keys, he banged his fist on the door. Steve answered with a strange look on his face, though it gave way to a smile when he saw the knocker was Bucky.

“You’re back,” he said, sounding relieved, and only then did Bucky notice that Steve looked as bad as he did. Though his hair was damp from a shower and combed away from his face, bags hung under his eyes, and he held his body as though crumbling under the weight of the world. When his gaze fell to the bag of Bit-O-Honey, he frowned and mumbled, “Aw, you already have some.”

“What?” said Bucky.

Steve gestured at the kitchen table, from which sprouted a small mound of bodega goodies. There were off-brand candies galore, snack cakes and Hot Cheetos, and several bags of coveted Bit-O-Honey. Steve wrung his hands and bit down on his lip.

“This is your way of apologizing, isn’t it?” asked Bucky.

“Yeah,” admitted Steve, “I shouldn’t have – well. I didn’t know what to do.”

“You told me this was my home too,” Bucky said slowly, unsure if he should even start a fight. His sense of self-preservation said to stop while he was ahead and let Steve do what he wanted. Everything had always been easier when he let Brock do what he wanted.

Steve shuffled. “I know,” he said, “It’s just – what else was I supposed to do? It felt like the right thing. I tried to do the right thing.”

Bucky grit his teeth. “It’s very hard for me to disagree with you,” he sputtered, “You’re always hard to disagree with, but after Brock? After all that shit? Being mad at you is a nightmare, okay? And I was starting to feel comfortable here. We had my pictures up and stuff. And then you kicked me out, for your own comfort.”

“I...I didn’t know what to do,” repeated Steve.

“Yeah, so? You could have figured something out,” Bucky said, “You threw me out! After you said this is my home! So what’s the truth, Steve? Is it my home, or am I just staying here? I have a kid to consider! If this is temporary, I need to know. I need to start looking for places, because I can’t just up and leave during your ruts, because I’ll have an actual human child in like four months!”

In spite of the brave outburst, Bucky crept closer to the front door. His heart beat out of control and his head swam. Heat flooded his cheeks. The urge to flee pumped through his veins, but he hushed his hindbrain and planted his legs on the ground. He knew Steve could smell the fear, but he stood firm.

Steve crumpled. His expression dipped from contrite to crushed in the space of a second.

“Oh, Buck,” he whispered, “I didn’t even think about that. I didn’t even think.”

“You didn’t think at all,” Bucky agreed.

“This isn’t temporary,” insisted Steve.

“Really.”

“I’ll prove it to you,” Steve promised, “I don’t know how, but I’m going to prove it, okay?”

“Some snacks aren’t going to stop me from being mad at you,” Bucky warned, though he would get down on those snacks in an intimate way as soon as this conversation was over.

“That’s okay,” said Steve, “I’ll do better. I’m not just saying that to say it. I promise I’ll do better.”

Bucky inhaled through his nostrils and exhaled loudly. He looped his bag over his head and dropped it on the floor. With a toss of his own Bit-O-Honey bag onto the table, he asked, “Do you need a hug?”

“Please,” Steve said.

Bucky crossed the space between them and wrapped his arms around Steve’s massive frame. He let Steve dip low and press his nose into Bucky’s neck, even though he shouldn’t have, because that’s what mates did. He didn’t want to prove Tasha and Clint right, but they weren’t here. He could do whatever he wanted. Now, he wanted to press to Steve and for Steve to press to him. He wanted to live in Steve’s scent.

He had missed Steve’s scent so much.

Bucky smoothed a hand over the curve of Steve’s spine and up through his damp hair. “I’m still mad at you,” he said.

“That’s okay,” Steve assured him, his beard scratching against the side of Bucky’s throat, “You can be mad as long as you need. Do you want to sleep in your nest tonight?”

“No, not really,” Bucky said, “I get cold without some dumbass alpha all over me, so thanks for that. Besides, your blanket smells like Clint and Nat now. I need you fix it.”

“That, I can do,” Steve said.


	11. Never Fall Apart

**Chapter Eleven**

**Chapter Track: Our Own House – Misterwives**

**_Never Fall Apart_ **

  


The thing about Steve was that he didn’t do anything by halves. When he apologized, he left a mound of snacks on the kitchen table. When he provided a nesting space, he bought the most expensive nest-couch on the face of the planet, bar designer shit for the wealthiest one percent of omegas. When he was mad, he fumed. When he was happy, he was a shining sun.  


When Steve promised he would prove to Bucky that the apartment was a permanent home, well, it went like this:  


Bucky stepped up out of the train station, on his way back from hanging out with Clint while Steve worked. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of the comfy, warm hoodie he’d stolen from Steve a week ago and had zero intentions of returning whatsoever. Unencumbered by any snacks as he’d gorged himself on unhealthy bullshit (he’d eaten an unspeakable amount of wings, and regretted none of them) with Clint, his walk to the apartment was fairly short.  


When Bucky stepped inside, everything reeked of paint, and not the kind that Steve used when he painted by the window because he was feeling poetic and brooding. This smelled like the inside of a model home on Long Island.  


“Steve?” he called, now on guard.  


Steve poked his head out from the guest bedroom.  


Bucky narrowed his eyes. “What did you do?” he asked.  


“Okay, don’t be mad,” Steve said, “but I made some design changes to the room.”  


Bucky groaned. “Ugh, why?” he demanded. The guest room didn’t feel like his, really, but he liked the security of having it there in case he wanted to sleep in a bed that wasn’t Steve’s. The occasion hadn’t struck since the rut, but Bucky never knew when he might be pissed off enough to call it quits on the shared bed. Besides, where was he gonna sleep after the kid was born? Sleeping in the same bed with Steve would probably be weird at that point, wouldn’t it?  


“Come on,” urged Steve, “See what you think.”  


Bucky slogged past Steve’s dumb face and into the guest bedroom which...was green?  


A cheerful spring green dried on now-bare walls, bordered in blue painting tape. The plastic tarp beneath Bucky’s feet rustled as he tred inside. He turned and glanced over his shoulder, where Steve stood covered in green paint (though, endearingly, he wore clothing already thoroughly-paint stained; ratty jeans splattered in color and a Radiohead t-shirt he’d owned since high school). The hopeful alpha face was on full blast.  


“I don’t get it,” said Bucky, “Won’t this color clash with all your family stuff?”  


“Okay, don’t be mad,” Steve said again, “but I saw you looking at paint swatches on the StarkPad.”  


“For a nursery, not for – oh.” Bucky blinked, “You want to make this room a nursery? Where will your mom stay when she visits?”  


“I called her and talked to her about it. She thinks a nursery’s a great idea and doesn’t mind staying on the couch if she decides to spend the night here. She hasn’t moved, you know; she’s still only a train ride away, but I like when she stays over if dinner runs late so she’s not walking alone at night. Hazards of an alpha son, she says. Oh, and she says hello, congratulations, and apologizes for not being over for dinner because her shifts at the hospital have been all over the place. Anyway, that’s not the point,” Steve sucked in a breath and powered on, “The point is that I said I’d prove that this isn’t a temporary place for you and the kiddo. Also, I have an appointment at that Expectant Omega Designs place to look at baby furniture that we’re gonna be late to if we don’t leave in like twenty minutes.”  


“Baby furniture,” Bucky echoed.  


“I figured you would wanna pick it,” said Steve, and then went on, “I mean, we can cancel if you don’t feel like it. Or reschedule? I don’t know. How’re you feeling?”  


Like an idiot, Bucky stood speechless for several painful seconds. Steve’s hopeful face faded to something a little disappointed, which prompted Bucky to blurt, “This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. I’m including that time I barfed at school and you said it was you so I didn’t embarrass myself in front of what’s-her-face I had a crush on.”  


“Lorraine,” Steve supplied.  


“That’s right. She was a fox.”  


“Buck,” chided Steve.  


Bucky threw his head back and laughed, then leapt at Steve to pull him into the tightest bear-hug he could manage with his belly between them. Steve laughed too, a sound of unadulterated joy, and wrapped his muscled arms around Bucky’s back. He pressed his fingers into one of the places Bucky’d started getting knots, and Bucky leaned into the touch, grateful.  


When they drew away from one another, Steve kept his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. He asked, gazing at Bucky through his eyelashes, “So, you like it?”  


“I fucking love it,” Bucky told him, “Did you even go to work today?”  


“Nah, I called in and told Clint to get you out of the apartment,” Steve admitted, “So, ready to pick out some furniture?”  


“Sure, but you aren’t,” Bucky said, “Might wanna change into something a little more respectable, Rogers.”  


“Yes, sir, Sergeant Barnes, sir,” Steve teased.  


Bucky swatted at him and said, “Get changed, you fucking comedian.”  


While Steve swapped his clothes, Bucky took to the bathroom mirror to make himself look a little less homeless and a little more like he belonged in an upscale baby furniture store. He pulled his long hair back into a half-do, which was easier with the prosthesis although challenging with its limited mobility. He unzipped the hoodie and swapped it for one of Steve’s older, worn leather jackets and a patterned scarf he bought to stave off the early-October cold snap that whipped through New York.  


He also bought it because – he had to face it – he liked clothes. Of all the pieces of Bucky’s personality to start drifting back post-Brock, he didn’t expect vanity to be among the first, especially with the state of his stomach as it was.  


The jacket didn’t zip over Bucky’s twenty-two week belly, but at least he could still reach far enough to lace up his combat boots. Pregnancy blogs and his own father warned that the bliss of being able to reach things only lasted so long.  


When Steve emerged from the bedroom, Bucky’s throat went dry. He wore a red plaid shirt open at the neck to show off his Neutral Milk Hotel t-shirt (the hipster shit), his newer leather jacket, and a beanie to keep his ears warm. He looked like the indie God of fashion spit him out of the heavens, and Bucky was living for it.  


“You look nice, Buck,” he said.  


Bucky’s face heated. “You too, you punk,” he said.  


Despite being dressed for the cold, they jacked the heat up as soon as they climbed into Steve’s car. Bucky couldn’t rub his hands together to make them warm, so he stuck his flesh hand under his t-shirt and against his belly, which was currently the warmest part of him.  


“I don’t think I can afford a lot of furniture yet,” Bucky said to Steve, “This place is fancy as hell.”  


Steve twisted his face into something unconvinced and said, “Well...”  


“You’re not paying for it,” said Bucky.  


“Please?” Steve begged.  


“I can’t let you do everything for me forever,” Bucky told him, “and you know how expensive things are at Omega Designs.”  


Steve whined. He cast a sullen look at Bucky and said, “I am actually begging you, as your best friend, to let me do this. Consider it a baby shower present or something. Come on. You know I’d do it even if we weren’t living with each other.”  


“What do you call the nest-couch, if not a baby shower gift?” asked Bucky.  


“Me being a dumb alpha,” Steve simpered.  


Bucky groaned. He’d only been working for about a month, and while most of his money made it to his savings, he’d blown a lot on food he craved and new clothes, because new clothes made him feel better. If he was going to be pregnant, he could at least look like the most fashionable pregnant omega in all of New York.  


Valkyrie Fitness paid well, and since Bucky’s medical expenses were on the VA, he had _some_ money. But at Expectant Omega Designs? What he had might only buy about half a crib. Bucky didn’t ask Steve how much he made, but he knew Steve was salaried and unafraid to drop a few thousand dollars on a nest-couch that would make Bucky’s father weep with jealousy.  


The feeling that he would owe Steve had eased around the edges, but lingered in his brain like a rotten smell. He pulled his hand out from under his t-shirt and rubbed his forehead.  


“Think of this as me keeping my promise that our apartment is a permanent home for you,” Steve tried, after Bucky kept quiet for too long.  


Fair enough. That would make the whole situation easier. That, and if Bucky’s mom heard that he denied free baby furniture, she might actually implode.  


“Okay, fine,” Bucky said, and Steve beamed.  


Expectant Omega Designs blessedly boasted a parking garage. As much as Bucky enjoyed the skillful way Steve snatched parallel parking spots out from under the noses of unsuspecting drivers, a garage prevented the strident swearing and blocks-long hike of a parallel job.  


Bucky had never visited Expectant Omega Designs. He never had a reason to. Pre-pregnancy, he’d heard of the place in a vague sort of way, through Facebook posts of old high school acquaintances that settled down with a mate. They wrote captions on their pictures of Target-brand cribs that read, _It’s no Expect_ _ant_ _Omega Designs, but it’ll do._  


Then, as soon as Bucky bolted to Steve’s place and the reality of the pregnancy set in, he couldn’t escape Expectant Omega Designs. Every pregnancy blogger known to man touted the virtues of EOD, praising the variety of designs to the safety ratings to the challenge presented to adventurous infants through clever crib engineering. The prices matched the quality, and never in a million years had Bucky thought he might have something better than bargain-basement baby furniture held together with chewing gum and a prayer.  


When they stepped into the store, an omega in her mid-sixties, dressed smartly in a salmon pantsuit and turquoise jewelry, greeted them.  


“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Do you have an appointment?” she queried.  


“Yes, ma’am,” answered Steve, wearing that stupid earnest face he put on when he decided to be on his best behavior, “It should be under Steven Rogers.”  


The omega woman typed a few words into her computer and smiled at both of them. She clapped her hands together, then said, “Wonderful. I’m Martha. I’ll be your guide. What would you like to look at today?”  


“Everything,” Steve said.  


“Cribs first,” Bucky tacked on, “Steve, you’re gonna have to take the lead here. I’m shit at interior design.”  


“What color is your nursery?” inquired Martha.  


Bold of her to assume that they had a nursery, Bucky thought, until he remembered this was the trendiest baby furniture chain in the country.  


“Spring green,” Bucky told her, and stuck his thumb out at Steve, “I picked it out, but he’s the artist. He knows what goes with it, not me.”  


Martha directed them through a series of staged rooms, talking through how each displayed a certain collection. “Though some clients opt to mix and match, as well,” she went on.  


All their sets were solid wood, she said. Every piece came with a lifetime guarantee. They were designed to withstand multiple children, Martha continued, and winked at them as she said it. Bucky didn’t bother to correct her in her assumption that they were mates, and nor did Steve. To start a scene in Expectant Omega Designs seemed tacky.  


About fifteen minutes into the tour, Bucky started to sweat under his leather jacket and fancy scarf combo. He shed the jacket, being too attached to the aesthetic of his geometric scarf, and shook the leather sleeve awkwardly from his stiff prosthesis. Martha, to her credit, only flicked her gaze to the bionic arm for half a second before she continued her spiel about a mahogany rocking chair.  


Bucky handed the jacket off to Steve, because what were alphas for, if not to be handsome coat racks?  


“I think we should go with something dark golden-brown,” Steve said, “I, um, if it was okay with you, Buck – I was gonna paint a mural or something in the nursery. I was thinking maybe a big dragon with a castle, and maybe a forest? Is that ridiculous?”  


God, how quick Bucky was to melt these days. He grinned, coiling his arm around Steve’s waist to draw him in for a side-hug, and said, “You big sap. That sounds perfect.”  


Martha showed them to a set that lit Steve’s face up like Christmas. He ran his free hand over the edge of a simple, round crib. A changing table and rocking chair shared the same whimsical design, uniting to form a collection that one might find in a Hobbit hole. A bookcase and small dresser completed the set, and it was perfect. Bucky loved it, Steve loved it, and hopefully the kiddo would love it just as much.  


As they followed Martha’s pantsuit to the front of the store to make the purchase, they passed by another couple with a different sales associate. The omega was petite, a slip of a man whose skin looked as though it never saw sun. His alpha, some beefy dude in a backwards hat, ran his eyes over Bucky, cocked his brow, then shifted to look at Steve. Bucky would have thought nothing of it if the guy hadn’t muttered, “Disgusting,” as Martha guided them by.  


Steve wheeled around. “Excuse me?” he said, throwing his shoulders back and puffing out his chest, “Do you have something you’d like to say to me?”  


The guy’s lips pursed into a smarmy smile. He swaggered over to them, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The alpha anger crackled through the air between Steve and this gross alpha guy, fizzled like static electricity. Martha, Bucky, and the third, wide-eyed omega glanced at each other, none of them willing to be the one that intervened.  


The dickhead alpha insinuated himself into Steve’s space. He didn’t drop the grin. He said, “Sure, I got something to say. No offense, but what hell’s an alpha like you doing with an omega like _that_?”  


“Omega like what?” Steve snapped, emphasizing every word with a low, dangerous voice.  


By now they’d gathered a small audience of well-to-do couples and EOD associates, the latter of whom included no alphas – otherwise somebody might have ducked into stop the brewing storm. Instead, several of the spectators held phones open, probably hoping to record an alpha fight. Buzzfeed posted compilations of alphas having it out every so often, and social media ate that shit up. What wouldn’t people do for some likes?  


“He’s busted,” Dickhead Alpha said, “You’re in your prime, man. Why’d you choose some broad guy with missing pieces? You could get somebody good, somebody whose pups won’t be fuck-ugly.”  


“You motherfu-” started Steve, but Bucky shoved Steve aside.  


At one point, this alpha’s anger might have cowed him. Only months ago the smell of his aggression would make Bucky’s stomach churn and his head swim. He’d have run out of this room and had a panic attack in the parking garage.  


Not today, though. Not when this assclown insulted not only Bucky, but his kid, too.  


“Hey, fuck you,” spat Bucky, “I fought for this country. I earned this fucking arm. I saved a guy’s life. I’ve been through hell and back so you can sit on your stupid ass and criticize omegas in furniture stores. I hope you don’t treat alpha vets like this. I hope you don’t treat other disabled people like this, but I got a feeling you do. You see people fighting every day and you think they’re less than you, but I got some news, pal. You’re not worth one spoke on a wheelchair. You’re not worth an empty bottle of medication. You’re not worth a single bionic pinkie, but here’s one finger you do deserve.” Bucky’s prosthesis shifted. It took a few seconds to calibrate, but he lowered four out of five bionic fingers and flipped him the bird.  


“And another thing,” Bucky said, “My kid’s gonna be awesome. Kiss my ass, you neanderthal.”  


Shock and anger and embarrassment shifted on Dickhead Alpha’s face. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, his tiny omega stepped forward and said, “He’s right. You’re _not_ worth it. I’m going home to my mom. Fuck you, David.” And the omega whirled around, marching from the scene with his head held high.  


David’s head whipped from Bucky to his retreating omega to their audience and back again. He didn’t say anything, but made to follow his omega, face panicked. A harried-looking security guard stopped him in his path, arms crossed over a barrel chest.  


“I’m going to have to escort you out, sir,” he said, “and you won’t be welcome back.”  


When the security guard and Dickhead David disappeared around the corner of a staged nursery, Steve yanked Bucky into a hug. He laughed, lifting Bucky off of the floor for a moment. When he put Bucky back down on the ground, Steve grinned. “That was amazing, Buck! Holy hell, I love you.”  


Bucky cuffed Steve’s arm, but pulled him in for a side-hug. “I love you, too, you big lug,” he grinned.  


Martha stepped forward, then. She said, “I, uh, apologize for the incident. Do you still want to make your purchase? We understand if you don’t want to follow through, of course. That should not have happened. We pride ourselves on a better experience.”  


Steve glanced over to Bucky, a clear deferral to his decision.  


“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Bucky said, “I really like that bedroom set.”  


Relief filled Martha’s face, probably some combination of knowing she’d still get her sales commission for an entire nursery’s worth of furniture and knowing that her customers weren’t so offended that she would face the consequences. A brittle smile rose to her painted lips and she said, “Wonderful. I’m glad to hear that. And, sir?” she turned that smile on Bucky, “Thank you for your service.”

**

“It’s actually kind of awkward to be thanked for my service,” Bucky said later, from the safety of his nest.  


Having slept with the baby blanket tucked under him for several nights, Steve at last returned it to the spot where Bucky liked to rest his head, and the nest felt right again. Bucky was tucked into a V-shape, his back reclined in one plush panel and his feet propped high on the panel opposite.  


Steve looked up from his StarkPad, on which he was working on some new project assigned by Stark himself. Still embarrassed by the car incident, Steve accepted the project and had been agonizing over it for several hours now. Bucky scrolled through pregnancy blogs on his phone. According to the size tracker, the kiddo was the size of a spaghetti squash, whatever the hell that was.  


He still hadn’t felt any kicks yet, but the internet said babies kicked later during a first pregnancy, or at least Bucky couldn’t yet identify what was kicking like a seasoned parent could.  


A text interrupted his reading.  


 

**[5:22 PM] Becca Barnes:** You’re on my Facebook feed???????

  


Bucky frowned.

  


**[5:23 PM] Bucky Barnes:** in didn’t post anything

**[5:23 PM] Bucky Barnes:** i*

**[5:23 PM] Becca Barnes:** No like there’s a video of you

**[5:24 PM] Becca Barnes:** You went the FUCK off!!!!!!

**[5:24 PM] Becca Barnes:** It has like three million views

  


From the coffee table, Steve’s work phone rang. He listened to the caller talk for a while, brows drawn together. God, hopefully this wasn’t more stress heaped onto him with the new project. Bucky shook his head.  


Bucky could only assume that one of their spectators posted his EOD tirade on the internet.  


 

**[5:25 PM] Bucky Barnes:** well he deserved it

  


Becca’s next text was a link to a Youtube video. Sure enough, there stood Bucky on the screen. He watched the scene: first Steve, then him. Seeing what happened through a stranger’s shaky cellphone video threw him. He really did that. Did his voice really sound like that? (How did Steve listen to him, ever?)  


What stunned Bucky, though, were the comments. A cesspit Youtube might be, but the top comments were in support of him:  


_my boy fuckin lost it!!! you’re doing amazing sweetie_  


_dude is a badass i wanna shake his hand_  


_Listen. Listen to me. THIS is how you teach anti-omega fuckheads what’s up. This guy reads him the riot act and you know what it did? It gave this other omega the courage to tell this piece of shit what’s what. Fuck you, David, indeed._  


“Buck,” called Steve, and lifted his phone, “It’s for you.”  


“It’s for me?” Bucky said, “That’s your work phone.”  


“I know,” replied Steve, “Just take it.”  


Bucky contorted himself to reach for the phone and pressed it to his ear as he shifted back into his comfy position. “Hello?” he ventured.  


“Cyborg!” exclaimed Tony Stark’s voice, “First of all, congratulations on going viral. Second, thank you for going viral, because it reminded me that I need to make you an arm that can flip alphas off faster than the one you got. Smooth as butter middle-finger action. How do you feel about stopping by the Tower for measurements next week? We probably can’t install what I have in mind until you pop out the kid – you know, safety purposes, or something – but if I get your measurements now, I have a few months to perfect a prototype. What do you think?”  


Bucky flicked his attention to Steve, who shrugged.  


The only thing coming up on Bucky’s schedule was the Barnes family reunion in three weeks, which would take place in Colorado, because that’s where most of the family actually lived. He and his folks were the weird outliers – them and his aunt Ida, who lived in Baton Rouge.  


“I guess I could come with Steve to work,” said Bucky.  


“Cool. How’s Thursday? I’m not great with mornings, but I could probably swing a ten o’clock. Oh wait. Hang on.” The phone rustled, and somewhere beyond Tony’s voice, another person spoke. When Tony returned, he said, “Okay. Pepper says I promised to drop by a board meeting, which I do not recall, but I love her, so I’m going anyway. How’s noon next Thursday? Good?”

“Sure,” Bucky said, for lack of anything else to say. Was denying Tony Stark the opportunity to get into prosthetics even an option? Bucky never liked the idea of being poked and prodded, but if a little touching got him an arm that could flip off Dickhead Davids more efficiently, and could benefit other folks in need of prosthetic limbs, he could pull through it.  


“Fantastic. Awesome. Can’t wait to get you in here, my wonderful one-armed wonder. Oh, hey, wait, can I get your phone number? I probably could have gotten it through JARVIS – he’s my AI, runs the company, really. No, you’re right, honey, you do. Okay, Pepper runs the company – but that seemed a little like a violation of privacy, which, rude. Anyway, if I get your number, I don’t have to call Headbutt Harry to get in touch with you. That cool?”  


Bucky laughed at _Headbutt Harry_ and relayed his phone number to Stark, who told him, “Didn’t I say to call me Tony? I mean it. Only my intern can get away with calling me Mr. Stark, and that’s because he’s eighteen and still adorable.”  


“All right, all right,” said Bucky, “Thanks, Tony.”  


“You’re welcome, my bionic friend,” answered Tony, “Ah, shit, I gotta go. My alpha’s giving me a look. You know? The Look? We’re gonna be late for dinner if I don’t stop talking. See you Thursday. Ciao.”  


Tony hung up. For a beat, Bucky stared at the cellphone in his hand, and then to his own cell where it rested on his thighs, lighting up with his sister’s texts.  


“I guess I’m getting a new arm,” Bucky said, and passed Steve’s work phone back to him.


	12. The Mess You Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Bucky describes an incident in which Brock put him in the hospital.

**Chapter Twelve**

**Chapter Track: Challengers – The New Pornographers**

**_The Mess You Are_ **

  


Bucky should have known that this was a questionable plan.  


Though Steve owned his junky VW Beetle, he did not drive it to Manhattan to work. He preferred riding the train pressed side to side with commuters to fighting with commuter traffic. Taking his usual train _with Bucky_ , however, changed the game. People already crowded the seats and the spaces between when they ducked into the car, so Bucky went for a free handhold and curled his flesh hand around it.  


Steve, in a tailored gray suit, stepped in behind him and transmitted alpha power in a way that way really fucking doing it for Bucky, not that he’d admit that.  


Naturally, Steve found somebody direct his alpha energy at: a stringy beta in a suit far less fitted than Steve’s, sitting in one of the chairs reserved for the elderly and expecting betas and omegas. Aggressive scent poured from him, enough that people began to edge away from Steve to crowd the other end of the train car.  


The beta businessman, absorbed in his StarkPhone, didn’t notice, at least until a scrawny omega chick with a green punk haircut complained, “Come on, dude, just give up the chair.”  


The beta glanced up. His eyes shifted from the crowd cramming themselves in the half of the car unoccupied by Steve, to Steve’s sour expression, to Bucky holding his face in the palm of his bionic arm.  


“Oh, um, sorry,” the beta stuttered, and scrambled to join the crowd.  


Steve extended his hand at the seat. Bucky rolled his eyes, but sat.  


“Dumb pleased alpha” came off of Steve in waves.  


Bucky rolled his eyes again. “Yuck it up, you punk-ass alpha,” he said, “I woulda been fine, you know.”  


Steve frowned. “You shouldn’t have to stand. That’s why they make those seats.”  


Bucky waved his hand in a careless gesture. He knew when Steve was about to dig his heels in, and he didn’t want to argue over a stupid seat on the subway. Steve culled a seat for a pregnant omega, felt pleased about it, and Bucky’d let it be. This was what nature made alphas to be, anyway – victors of the hunt, protectors of the pack, seat-stealers on the subway.  


Steve made a big show of standing sentry at Bucky’s shoulder, though God knew he only wanted to have eyes on Buck’s Wordy Crossy game. The dude could not help himself.  


“It’s ‘chaotic’,” said Steve.  


“Try ‘weight’,” he said, and prodded at Bucky’s good shoulder.  


“I think that one’s ‘fracture’,” he guessed.  


Bucky turned to glower at Steve and said, “Do you wanna play, or are you gonna backseat word game for the next hour?”  


Appropriately censured, Steve muttered an apology. That didn’t stop him from occasionally muttering hints when Bucky stalled on a level, but Bucky allowed it, if only because he didn’t want to spend all his coins on hints while Steve went red-faced with the need to give him the answer.  


Eventually, as Steve’s aggressive smell filtered out with the doors opening and closing at each stop, passengers sat on their side of the car again. The scene was still unmistakable: an alpha guarding a pregnant omega, but at least Steve leveled to a normal amount of protective instead of embarrassing turbo-alpha.  


Thank God the last couple of months granted Bucky the chops to deal with Steve’s alpha shit, because boy, did he have a lot of alpha shit.  


Steve stuck behind him when they exited the train and resurfaced in Manhattan, but this, Bucky didn’t allow. He pushed Steve in front of him so that Bucky could be on his six. People of all kinds crushed the subway station and the sidewalk in a way that still set Bucky’s teeth on edge. This part of being a soldier never quite disappeared: when he got into a crowd, he needed to protect his people.  


Fortunately, the riptide of humanity eased as they approached their destination.  


Bucky had never been in Stark Tower. The building, a great glass creature with the Stark name emblazoned across the top, was impossible to miss, even from a distance, but unless one worked inside, was a child on a school trip getting a tour, or a tourist snapping a picture, there wasn’t much reason to visit. A fresh deluge of people bustled at the ground level, bouncing like pool balls to their pockets. Steve steered them not to the elevator, but to the wide mouth of an open coffee shop.  


While Steve waited in line, Bucky booked it to the restroom to pee, which had become a theme of his life. Sometimes, life felt like what happened in between peeing every twenty or so minutes. Did every pregnant person suffer through this, or was Bucky’s son particularly saucy in the way he reclined against his dad’s bladder?  


“This kid is using my bladder as a beanbag chair,” complained Bucky, as he rejoined Steve in line.  


“So what I’m hearing is that you’re going to order a giant drink anyway?” said Steve.  


Bucky grinned. “I’m going to order a giant drink anyway.”  


When they got to the counter, Steve introduced Bucky to the barista, a pretty omega named Darcy, who raised her brow at the way that Steve had slung his arm around Bucky’s waist to pull him forward but hadn’t bothered to remove it. She tactfully did not comment, which was when Bucky decided he loved her.  


“Give me some hot herbal something that doesn’t have caffeine in it,” Bucky ordered, “Dealer’s choice, but throw some sugar in there.”  


“Honey, you can have all the sugar you want,” Darcy clapped back, and winked.  


Bucky grinned and winked back.  


“I like him, Steve,” Darcy announced, “You should bring him to work more often.”  


“Actually,” said Steve, “Stark’s making him a new arm.”  


“No shit?” Darcy said, “That’s fucking cool. How did that happen?”  


Bucky’s grin grew ever-wider and Steve’s face fell as Bucky said, “Steve headbutted Tony’s car ‘cause he was in rut.”  


The loud, raucous laugh that burst from Darcy’s chest cut through the ambient noise of the coffee shop like a bandsaw. She replied, “That’s the best thing that I’ve heard this week. Jesus, Steve, this pregnant omega stuff has got you _all_ fucked up.”  


“You’re telling me,” muttered Steve, as Bucky agreed, “Yeah, it really is.”  


After another laugh, Darcy waved them off to the side to help the next customers. Steve got his Americano and Bucky collected his tea, some well-sweetened berry concoction that did wonders to satisfy the pregnancy monster.  


In the elevator, Bucky endured a second round of Stupid Territorial Alpha, in which Steve physically stood between Bucky and the rest of the crowd, eyeballing anyone that so much as looked their way. Steve’s office itself proved much more pleasant, as Steve introduced Bucky to each of his coworkers (Bucky got a fist bump from Thor, who looked like he wanted to greet Bucky with a hug instead but wisely kept his distance) before they slid into his office to wait for the noon appointment with Tony.  


Steve, naturally, insisted upon accompanying Bucky to the lab.  


While they waited, Steve worked and Bucky sprawled across a row of three chairs that Steve said were for meetings. The arrangement didn’t much differ from what they usually did at home, although Bucky longed for the comfort and scent of his nest. At least Steve’s office smelled like him. Steve’s scent settled him down. The baby wasn’t kicking yet, but Bucky suspected that Steve’s scent settled the kid, too.  


Settled or not, anxiety stopped up his throat and popped in his ears.  


This arm thing would benefit more than just him, or so Bucky tried to remind himself. A guinea pig he might be, but he’d be doing it for more than his own sake.  


Nonetheless, to Bucky’s annoyance, the weight of nerves in his chest pulled harder around 11:50. His hackles went right up at the notion of being in a medical setting unrelated to his son, and though he knew his fear to be illogical, he couldn’t stop it. He’d been through the ringer in terms of hospitalization; a half an hour with Tony Stark shouldn’t set him off. He’d been blown up, broken, beaten and burned, and the mere idea of revisiting any of it made his teeth vibrate in his skull.  


As they left Steve’s office, Steve hovered in that good-natured way he had. He walked inches from Bucky’s heels and stood so close the heat from his chest tickled Bucky’s back as he entered the code to the private elevator at the end of the hall. Tony texted the code with instructions to Bucky that morning.  


As soon as Bucky punched the numbers into the keypad, the doors swished open, and an even, accented voice greeted, “Welcome, Sergeant Barnes, Steve Rogers. Sir is ready for you in the lab.”  


Steve edged closer to Bucky.  


“Knock it off,” Bucky snapped, “It’s an AI, not another alpha.” How long could it possibly take to get them to this lab, or medical suite, or wherever he was ending up this time?  


“I can’t help it,” Steve protested, “Your stress scent is making me anxious, and there’s nothing I can do to make it better.”  


“How the hell do you think I feel?” Bucky asked, “I’m the one getting thrown back in a lab, so cool your jets, will you?”  


After that, Steve backed off, but every so often his eyes flicked over to Bucky or his pinkie twitched his direction.  


The elevator doors opened to an unexpectedly casual floor. The sleek modernity that plagued the rest of Stark Tower applied only tangentially to Tony’s laboratory. Sure, machinery, ergonomic furniture, and a bevy of screens populated the space, but AC/DC echoed over a poured concrete floor and across the ruffled head of Tony Stark, who did not look like he’d spent that morning in a board meeting.  


In contrast to the crisp suit and gelled hair Tony sported at their unfortunate first meeting, a t-shirt worn-thin hung from his shoulders. His hair fluffed up from his head as though he’d woken minutes before, and a mystery substance (grease?) smeared across one cheek.  


“If it isn’t my favorite trending hashtag and his battering ram,” Tony called, opening his arms in welcome. Steve held his face in his hands as Tony wheeled out and away from an unidentifiable tangle of circuitry.  


A claw on wheels followed him like a puppy, and to it Tony said, “Dum-E, cut it out. I’m working,” then wrinkled his nose, “Yikes, Barnes, you stink. Am I really that scary? I’m just gonna take down some numbers. Just you, me, some measuring tape, and Attack of the Alphas over there. My Audi’s fine, by the way. Got the face imprint out of it a few days ago. How’s the bruise?”  


Steve touched his fingertips to his hairline, where the faint yellow-green of damaged blood vessels lingered, but only to those that knew to look for it. He parted his lips to answer the question, but Tony torpedoed through, continuing, “Anyway, you’re not the point. This is about Omega of the Hour over here. Pop a squat on the couch, will you? We can bang out these measurements, I can start whipping up a prototype – okay. I’ll level with you. I already kind of started on that part, but it’ll be much easier with some numbers to work with, you know? Of course you do. C’mon, sit down.”  


Unable to think of anything else to do, Bucky shuffled across the lab and lowered his body onto the small couch against the far wall of the laboratory. The sun from the floor-to-ceiling windows warmed his skin and offset some of the nerves. The odd environment helped – that nothing seemed remotely clinical and the space smelled of omega, of Tony, settled the churn in his gut.  


Though his wide-legged stance and arms folded across his massive chest suggested alpha power, Steve didn’t register Tony as a threat, and therefore didn’t emit the same overprotective vibe he’d been riding the entire morning. He hovered nonetheless, but Tony ignored him.  


Tony swiveled across the lab and back again, shooting over the floor with a measuring tape in hand. Bucky expected to be manhandled when Tony landed next to him, but instead, the guy asked, “May I have your right arm? Pretty please?”  


Dumbfounded, Bucky held the arm in question toward Tony. “You know,” Bucky drawled, “You’re a lot less suave than everyone makes you seem.”  


“Excuse you,” Tony retorted, “I am the most suave.”  


“You’re really not,” a new voice said, and in clicked Pepper Potts, long-legged, dressed to the nines in a gray pencil skirt and flowing sheer blouse, and all alpha. At Bucky’s side, Steve stiffened.  


“For fuck’s sake, Steve, put the knot away,” Bucky snipped, “They’re mated, and even if they weren’t, Pepper Potts is so far out of my league she may as well be on the moon.”  


“I don’t know about that,” said Pepper, then crossed over to them. She dropped a kiss to the top of Tony’s head and placed a paper bag in his lap with a, “Hi, honey. I know you forgot to eat, so I brought you a burger. That, and I was curious to meet the omega that’s caught your eye and the alpha that headbutted your car.”  


The blood drained from Steve’s face. He stammered, “Ms. Potts, I’m so sorry. I can still pay for the damage, if that makes any difference.”  


“Please,” she said with a flutter of her hand, “We can afford it, and thanks to you, Tony’s found a new project. He’s ecstatic. I’d _prefer_ he stopped trying to design prosthetic limbs while we’re in bed, but that’s far from the worst thing he’s done.”  


“Thank you, dear,” said Tony, and snapped his measuring tape back into its hull, “Voila, you are done. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”  


No, it wasn’t. Bucky barely noticed anything was even happening, let alone that Stark was measuring the circumference of his biceps and distance between his shoulder and the crook of his elbow. He blinked a couple times before he realized that Tony was genuinely waiting for his answer, and then replied, “Oh, yeah. That was a lot better than I was picturing.”  


“What, did you think you were coming to my torture dungeon?” asked Tony.  


“Kind of,” Bucky admitted, “I hate medical stuff. Freaks me out.”  


“Good to know,” Tony told him, and scooted back across the floor with his notes in his lap. He started typing on what looked like a holographic keyboard, something that Bucky didn’t even know existed, technology-wise.  


“This place is actually amazing,” Bucky settled upon saying.  


“Isn’t it?” said Tony, “Anyway, I’ve got work to do. Think you could see me again in, hm, two weeks? Pepper and I are supposed to go to Italy next week, so I wanna give myself plenty of time to focus on this.”  


“We have your family reunion from the twenty-fourth to the twenty-seventh,” Steve reminded him.  


“That’s fine. We can work around that,” Tony said, and pulled up a calendar with with left hand while his right continued to type. “How about Wednesday the thirty-first? That way you have some time to recuperate. I don’t have a family, of course, but I hear you need that whether you love them or not.”  


“That’s Halloween, Tony,” Pepper said, “You’re doing a costume ball benefit for the Maria Stark foundation.”  


Were alphas in general great at remembering calendars, or was that just Steve and Pepper?

“Right. Okay. November first?”  


Bucky and Steve exchanged a glance, and Steve shrugged.  


“Sure, that works,” Bucky answered.  


From there, the day turned anticlimactic. Bucky spent the rest of the workday in Steve’s office, alternating between meeting more people, playing with his phone, and one late-afternoon coffee run to recaffeinate Steve, who was drooping at his desk without noticing.  


When Bucky placed the Americano next to Steve’s hand, Steve glanced up and said, “Aw, Buck, you didn’t have to do that.”  


“You looked like you were about to fall asleep,” Bucky said, “It’s like three dollars for that thing, Steve, it’s not a big deal.”  


When the workday wound down, Steve and Bucky took the train back toward Flatbush. Steve did his whole alpha routine again, scoping out a place for Bucky to sit, and this time around, Bucky was grateful to be able to rest his feet before they had to hoof it to the apartment and up three flights of stairs.  


Fatigue from an eventful day cascaded down on Bucky, pushing his eyelids down and pressing heavily on his body. The weight of his prosthesis taxed what seemed every muscle in his body, but his back in particular twinged from the strain.  


At least, at the end of it, Bucky’s nest awaited him. He hopped in the shower and redressed in soft sleep pants and an old t-shirt of Steve’s before he indulged, but the second he snuggled back into the cushions, he was gone. Overwhelmed and thoroughly exhausted, he fell asleep with his cheek to Steve’s baby blanket and a beneath several quilts.

**

Steve made certain to have dinner ready and hot for when Bucky woke.  


True to form, Bucky lifted his head and scented the air from his nest. He stretched, one-armed, eyed his prosthesis where he plugged it into the wall, and rolled out of his nest. He scratched beneath the outward curve of his belly, yawned, and asked, “What’s cooking?”  


“Nothin’ fancy,” answered Steve, “Some chicken, some veggies. I made your chicken extra spicy.”  


“Mm, you’re a saint,” Bucky replied.  


Steve pulled Bucky’s plate from the oven and slid it across the table. His own stomach gurgled with displeasure at having been ignored for so long, but eating before Bucky seemed impolite. Steve kept an eye on Bucky’s plate as they ate. After several minutes of comfortable silence, Steve said, “Eat your fucking brussels sprouts, Buck. They are covered in butter and brown sugar. They’re not gonna kill you. And you and your son need the nutrients.”  


Bucky whined, but obeyed.  


“Today really wore you out, huh,” Steve decided to prod.  


The truth was that Bucky’s fear exhausted Steve. He didn’t typically require a second coffee, but having a scared, pregnant omega on his hands hit him with all the force of a runaway train. Both the quality and quantity of Steve’s work suffered, because he couldn’t stop watching Bucky, nervous and pretending not to be by playing on his phone and ignoring his feelings.  


Tragically, the feelings in question were so strong that the scent of them wafted out anyway.  


The scent drew Steve’s coworkers into his office to check on him, and the barrage of human beings helped Bucky’s mood exactly not at all. He clammed up, not that he noticed that he had, because Bucky liked to pretend that he didn’t feel things. That had always been sort of true, all the way back to elementary school when Bucky skinned his knees and popped up to announce that he was fine, it was okay, but later sniffled and went wobbly-legged from hurting himself.  


A blend of combat-training and Brock goddamned Rumlow compounded Bucky’s play-pretend of okayness.  


And now, Bucky froze in place, caught with a brussels sprout halfway to his mouth.  


“Medical stuff bothers me,” Bucky shrugged, and stuffed the food in his mouth to avoid elaborating.  


“You wanna talk about it?” Steve tried.  


“There’s nothing to talk about,” Bucky told him, upon swallowing his brussels sprout, “Like, I had my arm amputated. Is that not explanation enough? The PT alone makes you crazy. When it’s about the kid, it’s not so bad, because it doesn’t feel like it’s about me.”  


Steve squinted. Below the table, one of Bucky’s legs bounced up and down, and he scraped a piece of carrot back and forth over his plate with the soft scratch of metal on china.  


“Is this a Brock thing?” Steve finally asked, “You’re getting weird. You stopped getting weird about your arm forever ago.”  


Bucky’s fork clattered out of his hand, which he used to rub his temples. “You always have to fucking put your nose where it don’t belong, don’t you? But yeah, fine, it’s a Brock thing. He kicked my ass, or was my fucked up face not clear enough to you? He’d tell me to stop being so dramatic after he hurt me. He’d say that it wasn’t that bad, except this one time, when he hurt me so bad I don’t remember half the night and I woke up in the hospital. He told them I fell down the stairs. The nurses all knew what happened. They tried to get me alone and give me places to call but I insisted that nothing happened, and I kept insisting that nothing happened, until he got me pregnant and I had to run for my goddamn life. Is that what you wanted to hear, Steve?”  


Surprised, but feeling brave, Steve answered, “Yeah. I want to hear it.”  


The fury that accompanied any mention of Brock boiled in him, but he tailored the rage and squared his shoulders.

  
“What?” Bucky managed.  


“I want to hear all of it,” Steve said, “You should be able to talk about it. Just because I get mad doesn’t mean you shouldn’t talk about what happened, okay?”  


“What, so I should just tell you every gritty, sordid detail? It’s your business to know everything? You can’t take on my pain, Steve, and I feel like we’ve had this conversation about a thousand times before.”  


“I’m not trying to take on your pain,” Steve insisted, “I’m trying to listen to a friend.”  


_And_ o _n_ _that note,_ _I want us to be more than friends_ , Steve didn’t say. He never would, even if the closeness of mates was something he wanted so badly his lungs seized up and his heart beat so hard it smacked against his ribcage. He wanted to share everything with Bucky, but right now, he’d share what friends did.  


Bucky slouched in the kitchen chair, eyebrows drawn together. “What can I even say? It sucked. Some days I’m not sure I’m ever gonna be over it.”  


“You don’t have to get over it,” Steve said fiercely, “You don’t have to ‘get over’ anything. You can be mad. You’re allowed to be mad.”  


Bucky blinked as though the thought had not occurred to him.  


“You’re right,” Bucky decided, and then pointed a finger, “and don’t you let that fucking get to your head, Rogers. I know you. But this time, I will give you: you’re right. I think I’ve been thinking that I need to forget that any of this ever happened, but I guess that’s kinda stupid, huh?”  


“It’s not stupid.”  


“It’s kinda stupid,” Bucky repeated, and continued, “I can’t just will my damage away. Shit feels like my fault, but it ain’t, and maybe someday I’ll get that. For now, I guess I’ll just be angry.”  


Part triumph and part pride released the tight coil of worry that sucked in Steve’s spirit that day. Strain he hadn’t realized was keying up his muscles released, and the nagging headache brought on by knowing Bucky might never talk about what messed him up so much receded. He unclenched his teeth, and his jaw relaxed.  


This wasn’t a cure, but it was a start.  


“Love ya, Buck,” Steve ended up saying.  


“I love you too, you dummy,” Bucky replied.  


Steve added, “I’m proud of you.”  


“All right, now you just sound like my ma. Give me your plate, asshole. I’ll do the dishes.”  


Steve didn’t even argue. He passed his dirty plate to Bucky, who stacked his own on top of it and brought them to the sink. He hummed as he rinsed, and Steve beamed.  


Nothing felt quite as good as getting something right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to take a minute to thank all of you readers, and especially my readers that I recognize from across fanfictions and fandoms. Your support is humbling. Hearing from my readers makes me a better writer, and I couldn't be more grateful. Knowing there are people waiting for another installment has the power to kick my ass out of bed and get me writing, and if that ain't powerful, I don't know what is.
> 
> Thank to hailtothequeen in particular, who came up with the 'imprint of your face' joke.
> 
> Thank you guys so much!! (and I promise your patience with these idiots will pay off very soon)


	13. Have to Break Your Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally haven't finished answering comments on the last chapter, but I have a family obligation tonight and I figured you all would prefer to have the update sooner rather than later.

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Chapter Track: So Nice So Smart – Kimya Dawson**

**_Have To Break Your Heart_ **

  
Airports made Steve murderous on average occasions, when he flew by himself on business or the rare occasions he took a real vacation. The longest flights of his life hadn’t bothered him, as they were part of their senior class trip to Europe, and he’d been distracted by the company of his friends, even if his knees were pretty squished and he had to roll his shoulders forward so he didn’t encroach on the space of Bucky and Peggy, who’d been sitting on either side of him.  


Now he was even bigger, and even more annoyed – and they hadn’t even made it to the plane yet. After the hassle of security re: Bucky’s prosthesis and pregnancy, trying to get through a Starbucks line in the terminal for caffeine so he didn’t murder anyone, and hiking their luggage to their gate, neither he nor Bucky was in the mood for fuckery.   


With very few seats left at their gate, Steve guided Bucky to what was available and stood behind him with their carry-ons, surveying the crowd. An earlier incident with a middle-aged omega making a grab from Bucky’s baby belly already set Steve on edge. He folded his arms across his chest and stood in a way that dared anyone to try that shit again, giving nary a shit to the fact that he was playing obvious body guard.  


He wished that Becca were with them, but she insisted upon completing her Thursday morning class (“Because she’s a fucking goody-two-shoes, Steve,” Bucky said). She would take a plane to the reunion the next day, but Steve insisted upon paying for her ticket anyway, because her funds were limited and two hundred-odd dollars a boarding pass cost made a world of difference to any college student.  


Having her here would mean having an ally, though.   


“Steve, everything hurts,” whined Bucky, rolling his head against the back of the chair, “All I did was haul a bag through an airport. Why the hell is that so exhausting?”  


“Aw, Buck,” Steve said, “You gotta be easier on yourself. You’re growing a new life.”  


“You’re damn right,” grumbled Bucky.   


Steve took a long sip of his Starbucks Americano, which was not nearly as good as the espresso that Darcy and her crew at Stark Tower could pull, but it would do in a pinch. Their flight left at a godforsaken six in the morning so they could make the three hour drive from the airport to the mountains and arrive at the reunion at a reasonable hour, and he hadn’t had time to make his own coffee while Bucky fretted and fussed over their suitcases and the contents thereof.  


“You think we forgot to pack anything?” Bucky asked, as though he could read Steve’s mind.  


Steve shrugged. “Probably. Guess we’ll figure it out when we get there.”  


On the plane, Bucky took an aisle seat for easy bathroom access, while Steve stuffed his broad body into the middle space. A bespectacled omega in their mid-twenties sat on his other side, though seemed ultimately unconcerned over being seated in a corner beside a huge alpha – probably because of Bucky.   


Steve pushed up the arm rest between his body and Bucky’s, and Bucky sighed in relief at the added space, leaning into Steve’s side.  


Even though Steve’s legs were cramped into too small a space, even though his shoulders didn’t quite fit in the slim accommodations of economy class, even though his Americano hit his bladder halfway through the flight, he wouldn’t trade this spot for anything. Bucky’s head lolled against Steve’s shoulder. He snored softly, his hair falling out of the updo Steve had helped him put in that morning. His scent eased Steve into a happy, meditative place in his alpha hindbrain.   


Of course, ignoring his bladder meant that when their plane arrived at Denver International Airport that Steve and Bucky hauled ass to the restrooms, parting at the alpha and omega symbols on the doors to pee an entire flight’s worth of urine into the toilets.   


Though the various smells of in-terminal fast food tempted both of them, Steve and Bucky held off on getting food until they procured their rental car. Denver International Airport sat in an awkward, undeveloped patch of land, so they drove a solid twenty minutes down a toll road before they could scare up a place to eat. Rather than risk being late to the beginning festivities of the reunion, Steve ate a burrito one-handed as he drove their car, while Bucky tucked into a steak bowl, satisfying his Chipotle craving.   


“They’re gonna think we’re mated,” Bucky said through a mouthful of food, “Just FYI.”  


“I know, Buck. That’s about the fifth time you’ve told me in the last two hours. I’m not worried about it. Are you?”  


Bucky eyed Steve. He swallowed his food and answered, “Not really. I don’t care what they think. My question is just – do we bother correcting them?”  


Steve worried his lower lip between his teeth. He didn’t know how he felt about having a serious conversation while he held a half-eaten burrito in his left hand, and while they whizzed down the highway at over fifteen miles above the speed limit. That was, to say the least, not ideal.   


For a gut-wrenching second, he contemplated asking _would that be so bad? Being mated to me?_  


But that was a conversation that Steve didn’t want to have at all, let alone while being travel-rumpled and partway through a burrito. In a perfect world, the world in which he and Bucky could be together, he’d reveal his feelings at a precise, pure moment. They’d be doing something quintessentially them, smirking at each other while they lifted at the gym or grinning halfway through a double-dare to see which of them could eat the most chili fries. Or maybe they’d be eating something deep-fried in the crush of humanity at Coney Island. Maybe they’d be at home, on the cusp of a nap while the original Star Trek played on the television, because Bucky loved Star Trek and Steve loved watching Bucky smile. Maybe they’d be shouting in tandem at the umpire at a baseball game.   


Steve would turn and he’d say, “When I say that I love you, I mean like mates.”  


And in that perfect world, Bucky would love him as a mate did, too.  


Instead they were in this world. In this world, they were going to Bucky’s family reunion, where everyone would assume they were mates but it would be tragically untrue. Would Steve pretend to be Bucky’s mate to avoid awkward family encounters? Sure, why the fuck not?  


“Nah,” Steve finally decided, “Let ‘em think what they want.”  


“I’m gonna tell them you gave me a mating bite on my ass,” Bucky grinned and shoved another forkful of food into his mouth.  


Steve scowled. “You are not,” he said.  


Bucky crowed on, not bothering to chew, “I’m gonna tell them my ass is so amazing that you couldn’t help yourself. There we were, your face nose-deep in my ass -”  


Steve couldn’t help but let out a scandalized, “Bucky!”  


“What? My ass is spectacular,” he said.  


Steve waved his burrito and replied, “I’m not disagreeing with that. I’m disagreeing with telling your family that I was eating you out and decided that was a good time to mate you.”  


“My scent is intoxicating. You were overcome.”  


“For fuck’s sake.”  


Bucky snickered. “All right, all right. Don’t worry. _I_ know you’d never put a mating bite anywhere non-traditional, and my mom and dad and sisters know, but nobody else would. So we can maybe pull off a fake mating. Where’d you bite me, if not my spectacular ass?”  


“We could do hips, like Nat and Clint,” suggested Steve.  


“Ooh, saucy. I bit you too?”  


“Of course you bit me too; I am a forward-thinking, omegist alpha. My mate had damn well be claiming me right back,” Steve said, and punctuated his statement by ripping a giant chunk of burrito off with his teeth, so he didn’t have to say anything else on the matter.   


Bucky seemed to accept this decision, as he settled back into scraping the remainder of his bowl into his mouth. When he finished, he tucked his trash into the paper takeout bag to avoid besmirching the pristine interior of their rental car and set his head against the window to take another nap.   


The drive to the family reunion – at a place outside of Winter Park, called Snow Mountain Ranch, which was run by the YMCA, of all organizations – was immeasurably pretty. Mountains rose up over a serpentine road, the craggy rock formations and conifers casting short shadows under a late-morning sun. They made a couple of pitstops at small-town gas stations so Bucky could pee and hoard Hot Cheetos and Bit-O-Honey, but mostly, Bucky napped and missed the beauty while Steve wondered at it and fantasized paintings of what he saw.  


When at last they turned into the expansive settlement of Snow Mountain Ranch and pulled into a parking space at the check-in lodge, Steve was all kinds of antsy. He couldn’t wait to do something that wasn’t sitting, even if it was making stilted small-talk with people that thought he was mated to his best friend.   


Being in the mountains in October, there was snow on the ground, but the sun shone like a beacon. Steve’s body, encased in its leather jacket, could not decide whether to be hot or cold. Bucky seemed to be experiencing a similar dilemma, as he loosened his scarf only to tighten it back again in the next moment.   


At the check-in desk, a lanky teenage beta in a polo shirt made them keycards and directed them toward the lodge that the Barnes family would be sharing and where to find the cafeteria, then gave them a map for the activities that they offered. They had to drive down a short length of road to get to their lodge, but there, they found the reunion in full swing.   


“BUCKY!”   


Winifred Barnes, large in stature and presence, dropped the duffel bag from her hands into the dirt and swooped forward. She yanked her son into an unrelenting grip. She rocked Bucky back and forth for a long minute before she released him. Winnie smoothed her hands over his arms and tucked a stand of hair behind his ear. She reached to touch his belly, but paused and asked, “Can I feel?”  


“Oh, yeah, jeez, Ma,” Bucky said, and guided her hand to the swell, “If there’s one person that’s allowed to grab my belly without permission, it’s you. Grab away. No kicking yet, but the internet says it should be happening soon. Where’s Dad?”  


“He’s helping your sisters get settled in their room,” answered Winnie, and at last her gaze fell on Steve. With a whoop, she yelled, “STEVE!” and careened into him at full-force. Steve wrapped his arms around her. Familiar scent surrounded him, hardy thistle scent, clean and thick and alpha, wafted up around him. Winnie’s scent brought back memories of childhood sleepovers and graduations, the same way his own ma’s scent brought him back.   


Winnie pulled back only far enough to scratch her fingernails though his beard. She remarked, “You’re getting scruffy, Steven Rogers. Where did my little boy go?”  


“Ma, for heaven’s sake,” complained Bucky.  


“Don’t you start with me,” Winnie said, “You are just as scruffy as he is. What on earth is with your hair?”  


“Do you like it? It’s called ‘I was on a plane for four and a half hours and also I have one arm’,” Bucky snarked.  


Steve laughed. He said, “C’mere, Buck, I’ll make you look a little more respectable.”  


Bucky rolled his eyes but went along, yanking the elastic out of his hair and passing it to Steve. Steve pulled Bucky closer to him and combed his fingers through the soft, dark strands. Bucky’s hair had always been thick, and God, it smelled so good. Steve tried to be subtle about inhaling in the waves of Bucky, but blushed when he lifted his eyes. Over Bucky’s head, Winifred Barnes cocked one, thick brow above the hot pink frames of her glasses.   


He hurried, then, to arrange Bucky’s hair into a twist, and snapped the elastic around it. The bun wasn’t his best work, but at least Bucky didn’t look quite as disheveled as before.   


“You two didn’t go and get mated recently, did you?” asked Winnie.  


Blood rushed to Steve’s face.   


Bucky scoffed. “Ma, don’t you start with that shit. Everyone’s gonna think we’re mated, anyway.”  


“What are you going to say?” asked Winnie.  


Bucky waved his hand. “We decided we don’t care. Let them think what they’ll think. That’ll be easier than explaining to them I got knocked up by some assclown and hightailed it to my best friend – who happens to be an alpha – and now we’re living together. Can you imagine trying to explain that to Aunt Ida? She’d laugh in my fucking face. So. This week, me and Stevie are mates.”  


_Me and Stevie are mates._  


The deepest, oldest parts of Steve’s heart ached. His hindbrain didn’t care that this entire week would be a farce. His alpha instincts exploded with joy at the declaration of being mates, no matter how fake that declaration might have been. He stuffed down the emotion and prayed it wouldn’t eke out to his scent. Bucky didn’t seem to notice or care, but Winifred’s brow crept ever-higher, an eerily similar expression to ones that appeared on the faces of her children.   


Becca, specifically.  


Steve mourned Becca’s absence. She could have yanked Winnie off the scent of his sordid emotion, because Becca was the fucking MVP of Barnes family distraction.  


“C’mon, let’s get our stuff in the room,” Steve said, clapping his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and added, “Thanks for reserving those, Winnie.”  


Scent-neutralizers were a must for any hotel, motel, lodge, inn, bed and breakfast, or hostel. Their room here was no exception, though something musty and beta lingered, perhaps belonging to the cleaning staff. Generic, vaguely-floral bedding covered two beds – two, because Winnie reserved the room and knew very well that Bucky and Steve were just friends. She did not know that they’d been sleeping in the same bed for several months, and nor would she ever, if Steve got his way. He had a feeling Bucky was on the same page in that regard.  


With a heft of his arm, Bucky threw his carry-on bag onto the bed furthest from the window.

“Luggage bed,” he said, sing-song.   


Steve laughed and tossed their shared checked bag and his own carry-on beside Bucky’s bag. He stretched, running his fingers through his hair, and asked, “You ready to face the music?”  


“Ugh,” Bucky expressed, wrinkling his nose, “I guess there’s no time like the present. When the fuck is lunch? I’m dying.”  


“You just ate like three bags of Hot Cheetos,” Steve said.  


“So?” said Bucky, “I have a uterus monster hoarding all my nutrients. Where does a bitch get a fruit cup around here?”  


“A fruit cup?” questioned Steve.  


Bucky patted his stomach. “I have a craving. What else is new?”  


“Says here on the map that lunch starts at 11:30, so we can go up now if you want. Think your folks are headed that way too?”  


“If there’s food, they’re there,” Bucky said, and flicked sunglasses onto his face, “Let’s do this.”

**

Because Colorado was a godless place, the cafeteria towered over the rest of the land, a giant atop a steep hill. Bucky would never admit that he held onto Steve the entire hike up the dirt path that led to the food, maybe fondling muscle with a little more enthusiasm than strictly necessary. When Steve aimed a look at Bucky for running his hands over one enormous bicep, Bucky cracked, “My big, strong alpha, coming to my rescue.”  


“You’re a shit,” Steve muttered.  


“I’m _the_ shit,” Bucky corrected, and asked, “Do you think they’ll have fruit cups?”  


They did not have fruit cups.  


They served fresh fruit, which was not the same as fruit drowning in sugar syrup, but Bucky supposed he could make do, and loaded his plate with melon and pineapple. Steve forced a salad and some kind of sandwich onto his tray, which was nonsense, but Bucky brightened when he saw a full-on soda machine.   


Maybe this reunion wouldn’t be so bad, after all.  


“James! Jamie!”  


Bucky turned his attention from his beloved Sprite to find the entirety of the Bubbe Brigade looking back at him. His dad’s mom, a.k.a. Bubbe Prime, sat at the head of a table of primarily white-haired ladies. All nine of them blinked owlishly at him, expectant, and when he whipped his head around, Steve was nowhere to be found.   


That traitor.  


Trapped, Bucky had no option but to lower his tray into the last empty spot at the Bubbe Brigade’s table. He speared a chunk of watermelon with his fork and chewed, quiet. Maybe they wouldn’t tear into him too much if he put on an “eating for two” show.   


“How far along are you, Jamie?” Bubbe asked.   


Or maybe not.  


“Twenty-five weeks,” he answered. No amount of fruit would carry him through this moment.  


And where the hell was Steve, anyway?  


There was not enough oxygen in this entire state to deal with this.  


“Where’s your handsome alpha?” asked great-aunt Pauline. Her curly hair was not white, but dyed a vibrant, showy red.   


Bucky smeared his hand over his face and grumbled, “Conveniently absent.”  


“What was that, dear? Speak up; I don’t hear the way I used to.”  


“I said I think he’s still getting food, Pauline,” Bucky sighed, “He keeps piling more stuff onto my plates.”  


“Alphas are like that,” said yet another great-aunt, Marilyn, “Oh, I see him! He’s with your sisters.”  


All heads swiveled to a table oh-so-conveniently across the entire cafeteria, where Steve had put on the charming smile he reserved for family members, elderly people, and adorable children. The courtesy did not extend to Bucky, who got to enjoy Steve’s Five Seconds From Doing Something Stupid smile, or Dad Joke smile, or Shit-Stirrer smile. Would a charming smile in Bucky’s direction every once in a while kill the guy? Sheesh.  


“He’s so handsome,” sighed Marilyn.   


“I wasn’t so sure about the beard, but I think he pulls it off,” great-aunt Lois contributed.   


“Beard? My attention was someplace a little lower,” cackled Bubbe.  


“BUBBE,” Bucky cried.  


“Where’s your mating bite, hm? Someplace nontraditional, I suppose,” great-aunt Susan asked.  


Bucky’s cheeks heated. For a moment, he considered being a dick and saying that Steve bit him on the ass, like Steve vetoed, but decided against it. He could get Steve back for abandoning him to the Bubbe Brigade with something a little less humiliating. He licked his lips and went with the easiest lie. “Hips,” he said, “We did hips.”  


“You bit _him_?”  


“Yes, Marilyn, is that a problem?”  


“I’m just surprised, Jamie. He’s the most Alpha alpha in this dining hall. A man like that doesn’t just let you bite him.”  


Cheerfully, Bucky replied, “Fortunately, Steve hasn’t internalized a whole lot of toxic alphanity, so he’s just fine with matching bites. _Aren’t you, honeybear_?”  


At Bucky’s call, Steve jerked to attention. He grinned his Shit-Stirrer grin, none the wiser to what Bucky had actually been talking about, and replied, “Of course, sweetheart. Eat your leafy greens!”  


His younger sisters, Rachel and Judy, exchanged a glanced between the two of them and sent cryptic looks across the dining hall. A beat following, Steve leaned down and spoke close to them. They burst into laughter, and Bucky glowered. Steve let them in on the whole Fake Mates song-and-dance, and because they were his sisters, they were going to be terrible.  


Why did he agree to go to this family reunion at all? He could easily have said he’d be too pregnant. He was hella pregnant. He was extra pregnant. He was too pregnant for this shit.   


Steve, the absolute bastard, made it through lunch without one step toward Bucky’s rescue.   


Bucky said as much on their way to the back to the lodge, to the community room, where the entire family was supposed to convene for a “get to know you” activity, and in return, Steve smiled his Shit-Stirrer smile and said, “Aw, Buck, you just looked like you were having so much fun. I didn’t want to interrupt.”  


What a dick.  


The trek back down the gigantic hill on which the dining hall reigned supreme and along the dirt road to the lodge did not prepare Bucky and Steve for what ensued.  


Chaos stole the community room. Various family adults chased after the cavalcade of Bucky’s cousins, most of whom were thirteen and under, and very, very fast. Uncle Bill was trying in vain to set up a circle of chairs while a mob of children in the seven to ten range leapt from seat to seat in a complicated dance. One of them was wearing bedsheets. Where had he gotten bedsheets, and why was he wearing them?  


“What the fuck,” whispered Steve. “What the hell is happening?”  


Bucky snorted. “Ha! Now who’s laughing, asshole? What, Steve? Never seen a big family before?” he asked, knowing full well that Joe Rogers had been an only child and Sarah had one, much-older sister that sent Steve five dollars inside a card at every holiday, even though he was a twenty-eight-year-old man.   


And then an idea occurred to him. As the children marched around the community room, screaming and singing and bickering, Bucky pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. He whipped a crisp twenty out of the fold, waved it in the air, and shouted, “Twenty bucks to the kid that can take down Steve!”  


His cousins went wild.   


Uncle Bill cast Bucky a grateful look as the children abandoned the chairs and descended upon Steve like tiny locusts.   


The horror on Steve’s face lasted an instant before it hardened into determination. As children attacked every one of his limbs, he bellowed, “None of you can take me down! I am too powerful!” and began to stomp around their corner of the room. The kids shrieked in delight. The shortest of the crowd, Bucky’s second-cousins or something like that, wrapped around Steve’s legs and tugged on his jeans, while the older ones went for the hands and arms.  


And like the alpha he was, Steve lifted an entire two children on either side, letting them dangle from his biceps like Christmas ornaments. They laughed and laughed, and rather than feel like the sweet revenge for leaving Bucky to the Bubbe Brigade, the scene became something quite different.  


Steve looked like a dad. A happy dad. He swung the kids around with muscles bulging, defined even through his leather jacket, and threw back his head to laugh with them. What began as an attempted takedown transformed into a chorus of small voices begging to be the next ones dangling on Steve’s arms. He swung them around, instructing them all to take turns, and turned no cousin or something-or-other-thrice-removed away.   


Steve met Bucky’s eyes and winked. The air sucked right out of Bucky’s lungs.   


A vision occurred to him: his baby, old enough to hang onto Steve’s bicep, laughing at the top of his little lungs. Bucky and Brock both had dark hair; inevitably, his kiddo would be a brunette. Maybe he’d have Bucky’s chin, or inherit Winifred’s round nose.   


No matter what he looked like, that kid was gonna love Steve.  


Steve would love the kid. He was painting a nursery for the kid.  


With more force than ever before, Bucky longed for Steve. He wondered what it might be like to kiss him, what it might be like to have an alpha that would touch him like a lover and mean it, rather than a friend with no boundaries. He and Steve never had boundaries, and shit, did it show. One baby step forward and they’d be knotted together and snapping at each other’s skin.  


Natasha was right. In all but formality, he and Steve were mates.  


But Steve didn’t know that.   


Steve was...Steve.  


“Buck. Bucky, are you okay?”  


The community room swam back. No longer were the children draped upon Steve, but instead, surrounded him like a lost gang of street urchins. All eyes were on him. He must have...zoned out, or something.  


“I’m fine,” he lied, lyingly. The reality of his love for Steve and his desire to be more than friends settled into his bones and set the marrow on fire, but he was fine. Bucky cleared his throat and went on, “Kinda lightheaded. I think I should sit down.”  


In an instant, Steve swooped to his side. He took a chair from Uncle Bill and set it down for Bucky to collapse in.  


“Do you need anything? Maybe we should just go back to the room,” Steve fussed.  


“I told you I’m fine, you jerk,” Bucky said, kicking at one of Steve’s shins so he’d back off. “But actually – maybe some water? We are so high above sea level right now that I can’t feel my lungs. Water’s supposed to help, right?”  


“I’ll be right back,” Steve promised, and disappeared. Some of the kids followed him, while a few of the others stayed behind and hovered around him. Unsurprising – kids tended to drift closer to pregnant omegas. The scent of pregnant omega could calm down almost anyone, but was especially effective on children.  


Bucky’s little cousin Violet, only five years old, shyly asked, “Can I feel the baby?”  


“Sure, sweetie,” Bucky answered, and pulled her chubby hand to rest on his belly.  


This was how Steve found him: with several children’s hands feeling Bucky’s stomach all at once, asking why the baby wasn’t kicking yet and what he wanted to name it. Steve passed Bucky not one bottle of water but four, because by God, if an omega asked Steve to provide, Steve was going to capital-P Provide.  


Hydrating did improve Bucky’s mood, even if water didn’t wash away the tugging sensation behind his heart every time that he looked at Steve.   


Moment forgotten, the Barnes clan eventually managed to organize themselves into something resembling a circle. Uncle Bill, bless him, headed the charge and walked them through some kind of game to remind them all of the relatives they’d friended on Facebook but whose names hadn’t quite stuck. Bucky stumbled over his introduction of Steve and sputtered, “This is Steve. He’s my best friend, and, uh, mate.”  


Steve smiled at him, but this particular smile, Bucky couldn’t place.  


The night was...good. Once Bucky loosened up, his less-overbearing relatives came to talk to him. Most asked about the kiddo, but some asked about him. They wanted to know how he was doing and if he had any plans beyond becoming a dad. Bucky wanted to do lots of things, he told them, but right now he wanted to focus on being the best parent he could be for his son. Whatever happened after that – well, it would happen. He was rolling with the punches, like he always did.   


The weight of the day rammed into Bucky after the fifth or sixth extended conversation about imminent parenthood.   


With a full several days ahead of them, he needed to sleep. He wandered across the community room to Steve, who was speaking animatedly to Bucky’s aunt Nancy.  


“Hey,” Bucky said, sliding in under Steve’s arm, “Sorry to interrupt. I think I’m gonna head to bed. I’m real beat.”  


Steve hummed and said, “All right. I’m pretty tired too, but, uh – I’ll catch up in a few minutes.”  


And natural as anything, Steve leaned down and kissed Bucky. Their lips met for only a brief, tender second, but the second may as well have been a year. Bucky felt the warmth of Steve’s breath that smelled of the coffee he’d been mainlining since they made it past security at JFK. The menthol from Steve’s peppermint chapstick tingled on Bucky’s lips.   


That perfect spicy-earthy Steve scent amplified to a hundred times more powerful, so potent that Bucky had to pull back from it to breathe.   


Whether the kiss or the altitude had stolen his breath, he couldn’t say.  


Only inches from him, Steve looked exactly as surprised as Bucky felt.  


“Uh,” Bucky managed, intelligently. He drew his body out of Steve’s space, scratched his hand through his messy hair, and stammered on, “I guess. Bed. Yes. Yeah. Good night.”  


Without another word, Bucky fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:
> 
> -I am lazy and from Colorado, so Bucky's family reunion is where mine was in June  
> -This entire fic happened because of my family reunion in June  
> -This is Bucky's dad's side of the family, which is Jewish  
> -In a non-traditional move, Winifred took George's last name when they mated  
> -I already have the next chapter written, so DON'T WORRY, it's going to be okay  
> -'Omegist' in the context of this fic means 'feminist', essentially, but for omegas. There are still feminists in the universe as well


	14. How Could This Take So Long?

**Chapter Fourteen**

**Chapter Track: Buckle - We Are Scientists**

**_How Could This Take So Long?_ **

  


Stunned, Steve stood rooted to the spot. Without missing a beat, Bucky’s aunt Nancy powered on, talking about her brother-in-law, who liked to do oil paintings of classic cars. On an average day, he might have liked to discuss both oil painting and classic cars, but not now. Oh, not now, because he’d kissed Bucky. Entirely by accident, Steve kissed Bucky.   


Oh, God, Steve kissed Bucky.  


What was he gonna do? How could he cover his ass? How could he explain his actions? Would this come off as an impulsive alpha instinct thing? No. No, that rang too close to alphas that claimed they couldn’t control themselves in the presence of a compatible omega. Steve would sooner rip off every single one of his fingernails than become one of those Alpha Rights Activist schmucks.   


Maybe – Maybe he could play the kiss off as an extension of their pretend mating.   


That could work. That had to work, right?  


“Steve?”  


Steve snapped his head from the doorway Bucky went through and back to Nancy, whose brows were knit in confusion. “Are you all right, honey?” she asked.  


Steve stuck his thumb toward the empty doorway. “I’ve gotta go,” he said, “Bucky...and stuff.”  


Nancy patted his arm. “I understand,” she said, with a wink, “Go get him.”  


Steve whipped out the door, dodging several children, one great aunt, and Uncle Bill. He dashed up the stairs two at a time. He was only about a minute and a half behind Bucky, maybe two, but Bucky was gone. He must have booked it out of there.   


Shit. Shit shit shit. Steve scared him. Steve ruined everything. Steve was an idiot.  


At their ground-level room, Steve fumbled with his key card. An attractive couple on a skiing hill smiled up at him from the plastic. He hated them, because they were probably mated, and Steve wasn’t. Steve would never be mated, because he was hung up on his best friend, whom he just kissed.  


The green light on the door handle flashed, and the door unlocked.  


“Buck, I can explain!” Steve shouted as he burst in. He kicked the door closed behind him. He didn’t need the entire Barnes family to witness this spectacle.   


Bucky sat on the edge of the luggage bed, staring down at his hands. He blinked up at Steve, wide-eyed as a bush baby. He visibly swallowed. After a too-long tense silence, Bucky stammered out, “I-I gotta know. Did you – did you mean it?”  


“What?” Steve managed.  


“Did you mean it?” asked Bucky, voice growing stronger, “You kissed me. Did you mean it?”  


Well, here it was. This was the moment when Steve’s world came crashing down around his ears. He dreaded this day, since he realized that he loved his best friend as mates did, all the way back in high school. He hid his affection and bit down his desire. That worked for a long time, but this was it. Today ended of his game of pretend.   


Steve nodded. Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but Steve held up a hand. He said, “I gotta say this. Please.” Bucky made a _go on_ gesture, and Steve continued, “I’ve loved you for so long I barely remember what it was like to see you as a friend. I don’t remember when it happened. We were little. One day, you were my best friend, and the next day, I looked at you and realized I loved you differently than I had before. You’re the center of my fucking world, and when I lost you to Brock, it was the hardest thing that ever happened to me. I thought I’d never get to see you again. I was a mess. I almost lost my job, you know? That’s not my point. My point is that I love you so much that I’m losing my mind, and I finally acted on it. It was an accident, but I meant it. I really, really meant it. I’m sorry. I know...you’re not...you aren’t into me like that, but -”  


Bucky stood to his full height. He looked beautiful, like he always did. Pieces of hair escaped the half-assed bun that Steve helped him put it into mere hours ago. Shadows hung under his eyes from an early morning and too many people thereafter. He closed the space between them, and Steve’s heart thundered in his chest.  


“Steve,” said Bucky, “We are the dumbest motherfuckers on this planet.”  


Bucky lurched forward. He wrapped his flesh arm around Steve, yanked him forward, and crushed their mouths together.  


Steve froze, at first, because what the hell was happening? Bucky was kissing him.   


_Holy shit!_ shouted his hindbrain, _We’re kissing Bucky!_  


His brain rebooted, kicked into gear, and Steve kissed back. Bucky licked along the seam of Steve’s lips and Steve’s mouth opened to him. Bucky tasted so good, better than he ever could have imagined. His scent enveloped Steve in loving tendrils and intoxicated him. His brain swam and his hands went to Bucky’s waist, tugging him in as close as they could get. Bucky’s baby belly pressed to Steve’s abdomen, and it was perfect. Bucky was perfect. His palms drifted to rest on the baby bump as Bucky backed up, eyes heavy-lidded and lips kiss-reddened.  


“The dumbest,” Bucky breathed, leaning in for another kiss, “motherfuckers,” another kiss, “on the planet.” A third kiss.  


Steve followed Bucky’s head as he pulled back, seeking more kisses, but Bucky touched a finger to Steve’s lips, halting him.   


“I was about fourteen,” Bucky said, “when I realized that I loved you.”  


“Fourteen?” echoed Steve, “I wasn’t – but I wasn’t this.” He swept a hand over his body. He hadn’t presented until he was fifteen.  


“Buddy, if you think I only loved you after you got all meaty, you’re even dumber than I thought,” Bucky said, “You’re so stupid, and you’re so brave, and you do so many nice things for everyone you know. You’re my favorite person. You’re _my person_. I just didn’t know I could have you.”  


“You can have me,” Steve told him, “You can have me any way you want.”  


Bucky’s lips quirked up in a smirk. “Any way I want, huh?”  


Steve’s mouth went dry. His mind blipped. All that fell out of his mouth was, “You...that way? Me?”  


“If you want,” Bucky said.  


“I really, really want,” Steve answered vehemently. He leapt back into Bucky and they smashed their faces together so hard that Steve’s nose bounced off of Bucky’s cheekbone. They laughed, cheek to cheek, and Steve said, “I’m not the most experienced alpha out there. Sexually, I mean. There was Peggy, and a couple other folks before I figured out I was demi, but...”  


“You don’t really think I’m going to judge you, do you?” Bucky chuckled a little, and pecked a kiss to Steve’s cheek, right above the growth of his beard.   


Bucky stepped back, away from Steve. He gently removed the jacket – Steve’s old leather jacket; God, how that pressed all the right buttons in his alpha brain – from around his shoulders. His fingers curled under the hem of his red henley. He paused, then said, “Keep in mind, Stevie, I’m real fuckin’ pregnant right now. I’ve looked better.”  


“Shut up. You look amazing,” Steve said. Rather than let Bucky strip the henley himself, he reached for the bottom and pulled it off of him.   


His belly was round, skin pale from the lack of sun, and partly covered by the wide, black tummy-sleeve of his pregnancy jeans. He had milk coming in, of that, Steve was certain. His shoulders were broad, biceps stronger and more defined than they were that first night that Bucky appeared on his doorstep, bruised and terrified. Steve ran his palms over Bucky’s arms, then laid them against his belly. Bucky said that the baby wasn’t kicking yet, but Steve had been dying to touch the bump since it was first apparent.  


“I love you guys so much,” Steve said, before he dove back in for a kiss. He wanted to say _I love you and I love our son_ , but he didn’t know if that was something he should say now. Now, this was about Bucky. Later, this could be about their little family.  


Bucky pulled at Steve’s clothes, and Steve helped, throwing his coat off and onto the floor and breaking their heated kiss to yank his t-shirt off and throw it across the room.  


So seldom did he feel the heat of attraction that now it overwhelmed him. Heat welled low in his stomach. Blood rushed to his face and chest and thickened his cock. He blushed harder when he saw the tent pressing against the fly of his jeans, too big to ignore. Bucky just grinned at him, then fit his flesh hand over the hard ridge of Steve’s erection, rubbing through the denim.  


“I can’t believe this is happening,” Bucky murmured.  


“Me neither,” Steve said, though his words came out strangled.  


“This is like a dream,” Bucky went on. He kept a steady, light rhythm, stroking over Steve. The pressure through his jeans and underwear was nowhere near the friction that he wanted, and his hips swayed into Bucky’s hand, seeking something more, something harder.  


Steve groaned. “Can we take our pants off now?” he implored.  


“That’s a mood,” Bucky said. He released his hold on Steve’s erection, and Steve couldn’t tell whether he was grateful that they could be naked or disappointed that Bucky wasn’t touching him anymore. In either case, he needed to get out of his jeans, which were far from his most attractive pair – he wore a loose, broken-in pair that would be comfortable to sit in on a plane for several hours, not the pair that he’d prefer to be shucking off to have sex with Bucky for the first time.  


Holy shit, he was going to have sex with Bucky.  


“We’re gonna have sex,” he voiced, wondering.  


“That’s the plan,” Bucky replied, and rolled the stretchy part of his pregnancy jeans off of his belly. They were designed for male omegas, so they had a fly, but the zipper didn’t aid in pulling them off – rather, Steve had to abandon his own quest to lose his pants to help Bucky out of his. Bucky’s boxer briefs stuck the the denim and rolled down with the pants. Kneeling at Bucky’s feet, Steve pulled the socks away from his toes, and stared up at Bucky from below.  


Beneath Bucky’s belly, his cock flushed purplish-red with the need to be touched. Steve had seen Bucky naked before, but only ever in passing. He’d never had time to admire the cut length of him, how he was thicker than average omega. A clear bead of precome oozed at the head, making Steve’s mouth water.  


Steve wanted to taste him. He nuzzled the thatch of dark curls over Bucky’s erection, intentions clear, before he swayed back to look Bucky in the eye.  


“This okay?” he asked.  


“Are you asking me if it’s okay to give me head?” Bucky shot back, “Is that even a real question?”  


Steve narrowed his eyes. “Consent is important, Buck.”  


Bucky rolled his eyes, expression exasperated and fond. He threaded his fingers back through Steve’s hair, drew him in close, and said, “This is me consenting. Blow me away, Prince Charming.”  


“Ha-ha, you’re so funny,” Steve replied, but leaned in and lapped up the precome from the tip of Bucky’s cock.  


The aroma of omega arousal ramped up from sixty to one-twenty in the space of half a second. Bucky sucked in a soft, startled breath. His grip tightened in Steve’s hair, and pleasure-pain prickled in his scalp. He hummed a noise of pleasure, then dove into Bucky, taking his cock almost all the way into his mouth in one swallow. Bucky gasped, and Steve grasped what length he couldn’t fit into his mouth in his hand, working the shaft as he sucked.  


“Jesus fucking – are you okay down there, Stevie?” Bucky panted.   


Steve gagged a little, spit threatening to spill from the corners of his mouth, and pulled back for a second. “Full disclosure: I’ve gone down on an alpha before, and blowing an omega’s not quite as, um, challenging.”  


“Alpha knot your mouth?” guessed Bucky, hand still tight in Steve’s hair.  


Steve nuzzled Bucky’s thigh right against the crux between his leg and his balls. He hummed, “Yeah. It was intense. Mostly uncomfortable.”  


“And how,” Bucky said.  


Steve pecked a kiss to Bucky’s leg, gazed up at him through his eyelashes, and went back in. He bobbed his head and hollowed out his cheeks, paying special attention to Bucky’s balls as he worked. Bucky didn’t make a whole lot of noise compared to the handful of sexual partners Steve had had – he whimpered, but mostly kept quiet.  


“Oh,” did spill from Bucky’s lips as his fingers gripped harder. “Oh, I’m, I’m gonna – Steve, you gotta pull off or I’m gonna – _ah_.”  


Bucky came into Steve’s mouth, come hot and heady. It didn’t taste the same as an alpha might; there was less salt and more musk, a quality adjacent to sweetness but not quite there. Steve swallowed around Bucky’s cock and then drew back panting.  


“You taste really good,” Steve told him.   


Bucky tugged up on Steve’s hair. In response, Steve let out a little _ungh_ before he rose back to his full height, capturing Bucky’s lips in a new kiss. He herded Bucky toward the non-luggage bed and Bucky went, happily bouncing back on the mattress all naked and flushed and gorgeous. He scooted back to lay his head on the pillows, then beckoned for Steve to join him.  


“Pants off only, Rogers, that’s the dress code for this bed,” Bucky said.  


Steve threw his head back and laughed. He shucked his jeans and wriggled out of his underwear, then crawled over Bucky on hands and knees. His abdomen bore down on the swell of the baby as he tempted Bucky into another kiss, twisting their tongues together. Steve braced himself with a hand on either side of Bucky’s head to get the best angle and lost himself in that kiss, taking and giving everything that he imagined he would if Bucky gave him the chance, over and over, in so many different daydreams.  


This was so much better than any daydream.  


With their foreheads against one another, Steve asked, “How do you wanna do this?”  


Bucky rolled up to sitting. He pushed a soft little kiss to the skin beneath Steve’s ear and said, “Probably easiest like this,” before he turned to prop himself up on all fours.   


Then Bucky leaned his shoulders down, canted his ass up, and presented.  


Steve’s brain all but vanished. It was the Blue Screen of Death. It was the static of an unplugged television.  


Awestruck, he rested both his hands on the cheeks of Bucky’s ass, parting them to look at his hole. A faint glimmer of moisture winked at the edge of the muscle, and Steve ran his thumb over it. Beneath his touch, Bucky’s body went taut with want, but he warned, “Y-You might have to be gentle with me, Stevie. It’s been a few months.”  


“I’ll go as slow as you need, sweetheart,” Steve promised. He pressed the tip of one finger inside, feeling the glide of Bucky’s slick, and worked him open in certain, careful strokes. Bucky melted like butter under his ministrations, opening up so prettily. His arousal soaked the air, soaked Steve’s hand, and when slick came so readily it trickled out to Bucky’s thigh, Steve knew he was ready.  


Steve pressed the tip of his neglected erection to Bucky’s waiting hole, but paused.  


“Um,” he said, “I’m clean, but I do have some condoms if -”  


“Just get in me,” Bucky ordered, throwing a murderous glance over his good shoulder, “Do you know how fucking horny being pregnant makes you? I’m goddamn insatiable.”  


“I know. I could smell it,” Steve told him. No matter how much body wash Bucky tried to use to mask the scent of jerking off in the shower, the aroma remained. Steve about doubled over with want every time he climbed into the tub.  


Without another second to waste, Steve slid home, inside Bucky. Tight, hot, perfect heat engulfed him. Bucky’s legs twitched, and his flesh hand held the ugly bedspread in a death grip. Steve petted a hand between Bucky’s shoulder blades and over his hair. “How are you doing?” he asked.  


“I’d be better if you fucking moved,” Bucky complained.  


“I’m getting to it,” Steve shot back, and snapped his hips forward.  


A surprised noise punched out of Bucky’s throat. His spine arched, pushing his ass further into the air, harder against Steve, forcing their bodies flush together. Steve started a steady, patient rhythm in his hips. He bent down to administer kisses to all the places on Bucky’s back that he could reach, rubbing his scent into Bucky’s skin and ensuring he would smell like Bucky in return. He wanted their scents twined so far together that they became one, so that they would smell the way that mates smelled.   


Bucky shoved back to meet the thrusts of Steve’s body and said, “C’mon, harder. I’m not made of glass.”  


“You’re pregnant,” Steve said.  


“Oh, please,” Bucky said, and lowered himself onto his elbows. He rested his head on his arms and complained, “Dare you to fuck me so hard the baby starts kickin’.”  


And, well, Steve Rogers was never one to turn down a dare. This time, he drove forward with all the power he could muster, smacking their skin together with an obscene, sticky noise. The bed creaked under the force of their bodies, and the headboard thunked against the wall. Bucky spread his legs wider and at last he started making real noise, breathless, needy moans and mewls.   


“Holy shit,” Bucky cried out, “Holy – fuck. I’m hard again, holy fucking -”  


Inspired, Steve reached between them. He gathered leaking slick onto his fingers and smeared it into Bucky’s erection, rubbing him off in tandem with his thrusts. His knot began to swell, barely pressing out against the walls of Bucky’s channel, and Steve knew he wasn’t the only one feeling it.   


“You look amazing,” Steve said, “I can’t believe how lucky I am. You’re all gorgeous and round and spread out. There’s not an alpha in the world that wouldn’t want this, but only I get to have it.”  


“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, “Only you. My alpha.”  


_My alpha_ was all it took for Steve to knot in earnest. He bent at the waist, arousal pounding into him. The orgasm crashed and clanged through his entire body, and he came so hard into Bucky that he’d swear his soul left his body. His skull felt empty, his head feather-light, and though Steve wanted to collapse, he kept stroking Bucky’s cock, while Bucky whined below him and hitched his cock into Steve’s grip with little tugs of his hips that pulled against Steve’s oversensitive knot. The sensation was too much and not enough all at once, and all his brain could manage was to grind down into Bucky as far as he could go.  


“God, you’re big,” Bucky said, “I knew that before, but Christ on wheels, Stevie, I’m so full I just -”  


Whatever Bucky intended to say disappeared into a loud, helpless noise, high-pitched and gorgeous. For the second time, Bucky came, and his body spasmed around Steve’s knot, milking the come from him and teasing him into the echo of a new orgasm.   


When the pleasure at last waned to something manageable, Steve turned them onto their sides to wait out his knot. He buried his nose behind Bucky’s bun and kissed the back of his neck.  


“I love you so much,” he whispered into his omega’s skin.  


Bucky tilted his head back enough to meet Steve’s eye. A little half-smile played on his lips as he replied, “I love you too. I really fucking do.”

**

When they finally settled, the throb in Bucky’s stump reared its ugly head. He sighed, wiggling back on Steve’s knot, and asked, “Think we can get my arm off while we’re stuck?”

“I can do it,” Steve said, and pulled at the buckles of the harness.   


Though his hands were gentle, Bucky’s stump still flared with pain when Steve pulled it free of the prosthesis. He whined, but Steve rubbed his fingers into the scar tissue and relieved some of the ache.   


They lay knotted together for a long time, longer than any alpha knotted Bucky before. Steve’s chest lay flush against Bucky’s back, gritty with sweat, and he rested his bearded chin on Bucky’s shoulder. There’d be beard burn everywhere, Bucky knew, all over his damn body, and he’d love every stupid patch of it.   


As they breathed together quietly, Steve’s hands shifted to rest on Bucky’s belly.  


Bucky’s heart about leapt from his ribcage at the sensation of warm hands stroking the pregnant curve of him, firm but loving. He was still reeling from the shock and warmth and love that bombarded him upon Steve’s admission. That any of this could happen boggled the mind – maybe this was an elaborate pregnancy dream. He reached over his still-sore stump and pinched the skin above the scarring.   


“You’re not dreaming, you jerk,” rumbled Steve, who smelled fantastic, intensity easily tripled with their bodies knotted together. Any time either of them as much as twitched, the ridge of Steve’s knot rubbed against the walls of Bucky’s channel with delicious pressure. He couldn’t remember ever being this full before, physically and spiritually and everything in between.  


When Steve’s knot finally let up enough for them to separate, Bucky transferred his weight to his other side so he could face Steve, a million questions at the tip of his tongue.  


But Steve, always one to barrel in, guns blazing, beat him to it. “I want to mate you,” he blurted, “I want this forever.”  


Bucky’s hindbrain jumped up and down in celebration, but he couldn’t ignore the practicalities at the forefront of his mind. If Bucky had only himself to consider, he’d jump in without a care, reckless and in love and ready for anything.   


The reality was, though, that what Bucky wanted took a backseat to the welfare of his child. That was the nature of parenthood. The life of his kiddo transcended all other needs, all other wants, all other roads.  


“I want that, too,” Bucky answered, voice soft, “but...you need to understand – if we do this, you’re a father too. This kid is more important than anything I want. You have to be prepared to be Papa. If you don’t want that responsibility, then we don’t do this. We,” - Bucky swallowed, chest aching with the weight of his own words - “We put this behind us. We don’t do this again. You stay Uncle Steve, and we keep on being what we’ve always been – friends.”  


Steve didn’t blink, but burrowed his nose into the column of Bucky’s throat, beard scratching against the spot where a traditional mating bite would go. When he drew back again, he cupped Bucky’s face in one, large hand, stroking his thumb across the cheekbone. Steve’s eyes hardened with the determination that meant he’d made a decision; he was planting himself like a tree, and would not move.  


“I want this baby to be mine. I’ve wanted it from the beginning, but -” Steve blushed, abruptly shy, “I didn’t want to freak you out. I thought it might be some shitty alpha thing, thinking of the kid as mine. I just – I wanted to be respectful of you, of your body. Of your choices. I didn’t want to decide the baby was mine like some sort of territorial weirdo, but,” - Steve’s gaze dipped down and he mumbled into his chest all in a rush - “ _I’ve kind of been thinking of him as my son anyway._ ”  


Bucky laughed a little. He tipped Steve’s chin up and kissed him tenderly. “You realize that’s, like, the antithesis of a stupid alpha thing, right?”  


“No?” Steve ventured.  


“Stevie, sweetheart, your average alpha can’t handle a pup that different alpha sired. There are studies. You know this. Step-alphas struggle to accept a mate’s kids from a previous relationship. You’re telling me that you’ve been thinking of this baby as _ours_? This whole time?”  


“How could I not? You’re my best guys,” Steve whispered. He placed one hand against Bucky’s belly and one in Bucky’s hair, leaning over him for a long kiss, the kind of kiss that went nowhere but flowed like water. Then, he scooted down and nosed along the baby bump, and kissed there, too.   


“Aw, fuck, that’s cute,” Bucky commented, before he could help himself.  


“You’re ruining the moment,” Steve told him, “I’m trying to bond with my son.”  


“I thought you were trying to bond with me,” Bucky shot back.  


Steve’s eyes darkened and his mouth went slack. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips, and he nodded. With a stubborn lift of his chin, he said, “I want you to bite me first. I’m yours. Always have been. Mark me up, you asshole.”  


“Where did all the romance go?” Bucky said, but he drifted as close to Steve as he could. All the blood in his body pumped out of whack, so elated and nervous at once that nothing was working the way that it was supposed to. He pushed Steve onto his back and shuffled onto his knees above him. “Throats?” Bucky prodded.  


“Throats,” agreed Steve. He bared his neck, and Bucky bent, scenting along the entire, thick muscle of it. Once he found the place that smelled the most Steve, Bucky opened his mouth. He worried the skin with his teeth, teasing long enough to elicit an indignant huff from his alpha before he sank his teeth in and claimed Steve as his own.  


Steve groaned, grabbing at Bucky’s waist while Bucky lapped at the blood welling from the wound.   


“All right,” Bucky said, “My turn. Bite me, big guy.”  


“Don’t call me ‘big guy’ when I’m trying to mate you,” Steve griped, but rose up to sitting again.  


“Fine, fine. Bite me, sweetheart. Light of my life. My charming – JESUS.”  


Steve chomped down on Bucky’s neck with exactly zero warning, and when he came away from licking at the mark, he smiled a blood-filled, shit-eating grin. Bucky tried to scowl but couldn’t keep the happiness from oozing to the surface, his face splitting into his own grin, the same grins they’d always given each other over inside jokes and terrible ideas and double dares.   


Only this time – the grins came with a kiss at the end. Steve closed his lips over Bucky’s and their tongues tangled with the combined taste of their blood sliding together, sealing their bond.   


With the chill of October in the air and their son between them, Bucky and Steve became mates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note: In this universe, Steve is pansexual. I've alluded to it before, but since it's stated more explicitly in this chapter, I figured I'd let you know our boy Rogers is into every sex and designation and anything in between.


	15. I Especially Am Slow

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Chapter Track: First Day of My Life - Bright Eyes**

_**I Especially Am Slow** _

  


In the past several months, Steve had come to wake up alongside Bucky many times. He’d stretched awake while Bucky clung to him. He’d been shaken from sleep by Bucky running to bathroom. He’d been met by a wild-haired, pissed-off Bucky.  


There was something special about cracking open his eyes and turning to see a fresh, red-pink bite on Bucky’s skin. The satisfaction of it roared from his hindbrain to his logical mind and back again, every part of his body soaked in the happiness of having a mate. Bucky! Bucky was his mate. Never in a million years had he imagined that this was possible, but Bucky was here beside him, Steve’s scent rubbed into his skin.  


“You got any idea how smug you smell, pal?” rumbled Bucky, eyes closed and voice garbled by sleep.  


Steve reached out and tucked a tangled piece of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. He dipped forward, pushed a gentle kiss to Bucky’s forehead.  


Only then did Bucky squint up at him. His grumpy morning face shifted to a tentative smile.  


“Can I kiss you?” Steve asked, still uncertain of the ground on which he tread. His bite may have been healing on Bucky’s neck, but that didn’t mean he had blanket permission to do whatever he wanted.   


Bucky snorted and replied, “I sure fucking hope so,” then paused and added, “but thank you for asking.”  


Across the pillows, Steve leaned in. Unlike the kisses of the previous night, this kiss lazed and languished, a directionless kiss that meandered between chaste pecks and the slow, indulgent slide of Bucky’s tongue against his. This was kissing for the sake of kissing, and all the while Steve marveled at the fact that he got to kiss Bucky at all.  


“I can’t believe I get to kiss you,” Bucky said, putting a voice to Steve’s inner monologue.   


Steve laughed and pressed his forehead to Bucky’s. He brushed another kiss over his swollen lips, and said, “We’re so damn dumb, Buck.”  


“What happens now?” asked Bucky.  


Steve groaned. He rolled onto his back and pushed his finger tips into his eyes, massaging. “I didn’t exactly think that far,” he admitted, “but there’s no way to avoid coming clean to your family.” He traced the impression of his teeth in Bucky’s skin with the backs of his knuckles.  


“They were all gossiping about us anyway. I think half of ‘em saw that stupid video of us at Expectant Omega Designs.” Bucky grimaced. He gripped at his chaotic hair, then griped, “I wish I could have coffee. I’d be way more equipped to deal with this shit if I had caffeine in me.”  


“You’re shit out of luck, sweetheart,” Steve said, “But maybe a shower would help. We should really shower. We’re, um...we smell.”  


Bucky scented the air with a cursory sniff, and then wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, a shower’s a good call,” he agreed.  


The simple, standard hotel-like shower didn’t boast amenities beyond a plastic-encased bar of soap smaller than Steve’s palm, but they brought their own toiletries. Too attached and newly mated to shower alone, they stumbled into the closet-sized bathroom and squeezed into the shower together, two large men in a cramped space, with no choice but to stick close to one another and kiss under the uneven flow of water.  


Getting clean took longer than usual, but Steve would take the image of pregnant Bucky slick with water and smiling at him with him to the grave.  


“God, what do we say?” Bucky asked as they dressed. He decided to eschew his prosthesis, claiming his stump was still sore from wearing the arm the entire day yesterday from dawn to dusk.   


“The truth?” suggested Steve.  


Bucky frowned. “Ugh. Truth is hard. They’re going to judge me.”  


“Babe, they were already judging you. That’s what families do.”  


Bucky grinned abruptly, all teeth and mischief.  


“What?” Steve asked.  


“You called me babe,” Bucky said, “You like me. You _love_ me. You’re mated to me. What a loser.”  


“And I’ve never been happier,” Steve sniffed, folding his arms. He would not let his omega suffer any delusions of believing this was anything but exactly what Steve wanted.  


“All right,” Bucky said, ignoring Steve’s sincerity with the deft way he always had, “New game plan. We go get breakfast like normal, and we don’t say a goddamn thing. We do nothing. If everything goes to hell, we improvise.”  


“Sounds like what we usually do,” Steve remarked.  


“Nothin’ like the ol’ tried and true,” replied Bucky, and held out his fist, “Go team?”  


Steve pursed his lips and shook his head, but bumped the proffered fist nonetheless. “Go team,” he said, and ducked in to steal a kiss with his fist bump.   


They were going to be late, because Steve insisted upon leaving an apology note for the cleaning staff that equated to: _Sorry we mated on your bed. We will pay for any damages._ The damage was going to be one hell of a laundering. Taking the smell of a mating night out of a comforter required specialized laundromats, like dry cleaners on steroids. One would think that such a specific profession wouldn’t accrue a lot of income, but people paid good money to set their omega’s favorite linens back to rights. Or, in their case, linens that didn’t belong to them.   


The trek up to the dining hall went about as well as the lunch trek went the previous day. Only at the sight of the massive eating monolith did Steve realize the extent of his hunger – he and Bucky fucked and mated and talked, knotted some more and slept the entire way through dinner. Their absence wouldn’t have gone unnoticed, but he did like Bucky’s suggestion that they roll with the punches. Steve could concoct many-a game plan, but nothing held up against the might of the entirety of the Barnes clan.   


Bucky clung to Steve on the walk up the hill, and this time, he didn’t make a joke out of it. He was probably twice as hungry as Steve, cargo considering, and with that Steve’s alpha brain switched on. He had to feed Bucky. He’d kept Bucky from dinner. What the hell kind of alpha kept their omega from eating dinner?  


They flashed the orange plastic bracelets that gave them a free pass into the dining hall at every meal (part of their family reunion package, apparently), and Steve began compiling a breakfast plate for Bucky before he gave thought to himself. He threw oatmeal in a bowl and fruit on his plate, added sausage and what appeared to be french toast fingers, then happily shuffled Bucky along and procured a glass of milk for him along the way.   


Of course, when they sat down across from Winifred and George in the back corner of the dining hall, it all went hell.  


“Well, fuck me sideways,” commented George Barnes. He set his coffee against the table with a decisive clack, and smacked Winnie’s arm to draw her attention away from Uncle Bill.   


“What, George?” she asked, “I’m having a conversation.”  


George stuck his thumb out at Steve and Bucky and said, “Well, you’re about to have a different one.”  


Winnie scanned Steve and Bucky and her jaw fell open. She didn’t speak – something that could not often be said of Winifred Barnes – but instead pulled her StarkPhone out of her pocket and stabbed at the screen with vicious, manicured fingers.   


She elbowed Bucky’s sister in her eagerness, and Rachel said, “Ma, what in God’s name are you – oh. Oh, shit.”  


“Can we not,” Bucky said, but it was too late.  


The familiar tone of a StarkTime call beginning beeped cheerily, and to Steve’s horror, only a moment later, his mother’s face filled out the screen, tired and still in her scrubs. “Winifred, what in holy hell are you calling for? You’re at your reunion. Enjoy yourself, and stop speculating about the boys.”  


“Sarah, you’re not gonna believe this,” Winnie said, and turned the phone around.  


Steve worked up a smile for his mom and waved a little. He imagined getting heat from Bucky’s family, but he had never, not once, considered that Winnie might pull his own mother out of her bag of tricks. Sarah Rogers’ blue-green eyes swept over Steve’s form, a dent between her brows. When her lips parted and her entire face went slack, Steve knew they were caught.  


Beside him, Bucky sunk low in his chair, as though the pile of food on his plate might hide him.   


“Oh my stars,” Sarah said, anti-swearing in the way she did went surprise well and truly struck her, “Honey, are you – did you – oh. Oh, finally. I thought it was never going to happen. I thought we were going to watch you two morons dance around in mating limbo for the rest of your lives. Oh! Oh, I’m going to be a grandmother. I mean, I knew that already, but now it’s all official.”  


Winifred turned the phone back to face her and said, “Fifty bucks, right? That’s what you owe me.”  


“What?” Bucky said, pushing up and straightening his back, “What are you talking about?”  


“Our bet, sweetie,” Winnie said, “When you two were, hm, fifteen? Sixteen?”  


“Fifteen,” Sarah interjected from the StarkPhone, “They were fifteen.”  


“Right. When you were fifteen, Sarah bet me a fifty that you’d figure yourselves out by graduation. She says to me, ‘They can’t possibly be that obtuse.’ So I say, ‘They are exactly that obtuse, and I say they don’t figure out shit until they’re grown-ass men.’ Lo and behold, here you are, grown-ass men, and it took an entire baby and some weird game of house to get your heads out of your asses. Am I missing anything, Sarah?”  


“Nope,” Sarah replied, “That about covers it. I’ll send you and George a card in the mail.”  


“Mazel tov,” contributed George, “That’s for all of us.”  


Steve expected more yelling, maybe. He expected the offended brand of shock that only your closest loved ones could wield, perhaps some sharp words and a shovel talk. None of it came – Winnie and his mom chatted for a few more minutes before Sarah excused herself to sleep off a long shift. Winnie reached across the table to stroke Steve’s hair back and congratulate him on his and Bucky’s mating, while George laced his fingers with Bucky’s and told him he’d picked a worthy alpha.   


The Barnes clan in its entirety took the Steve and Bucky Affair of 2018 in stride.

**

Later, as they traversed a snowy path to the tubing hill, Steve said, “I thought that would be a lot harder.”  


“Eh,” Bucky said, “After Granddad came out and told us he was an omega, not an alpha, and that one time Aunt Jen was dating two alphas at once – who were also dating each other – we’re kind of shock-proof. Also, my family’s bananas, but they’re not stupid. Bubbe’s miffed I didn’t tell the truth, but she’s too excited to be a great-grandmother to be all that mad for long. She’s gonna send us some hoity-toity, ugly-ass baby clothes, believe you me.”  


“We’re gonna have to dress our kid in ugly-ass clothes so we can send her a picture, I’m guessing?”  


“Yup. Welcome to your new, big, happy family,” Bucky chuckled.  


A flood of small children cut off any further conversation as they reached the tubing hill. Bundled-up Barnes family members lined up to sign waivers and drag tubes over to a steep sledding hill, where they’d slide down in a tube, climb back up, and do it all over again. Bucky wouldn’t go, for obvious, baby-related reasons, but Steve promised cousin Violet at breakfast that he would go down the hill with her in one of those big tube-little tube dealies for kids too small to fly down the hill on their own. In the summer, the staff lubed up the hill with sprinklers, but at the precipice of winter, snow caked the hill with a healthy, icy frosting.   


Cozy in Steve’s old leather jacket and his favorite scarf, Bucky watched his family laugh and play. He couldn’t help but smile as he did, a light, giddy sensation expanding his gut. Bucky snapped pictures on his phone of Steve tucked into his innertube, hand locked with Violet’s as they soared over the snowy hillside.   


His insides twinged, like a weird, muscle-spasm kind of feel.  


Was that – gas? A cramp?   


Bucky glanced down at his belly.  


“Holy fuck,” he said, and shouted to Steve, who was stepping off at the top of the hill, “Stevie! Steve, come feel!”  


Never in his life had Bucky seen Steve move as fast as he did. In one swoop, Steve scooped Violet up with his right arm and dragged the joint innertube behind him, legs high in the air. He dropped the tube the instant he skidded to a stop at Bucky’s side, and Bucky yanked Steve’s free hand to rest on the swell of the baby.  


The spasming continued, except it wasn’t a muscle spasm. It was – it was like bubbles popping, like somebody flicking the inside of him. It was his son. His son was finally kicking.  


The sun rose on Steve’s face. His hand, warm and steady, pushed into the knit of Bucky’s thermal shirt.   


“I think that’s a big, fat, ‘Heya, Pops’ if I ever heard one,” Bucky said.  


“This is amazing,” Steve said. He eased Violet down off of his hip, then, and guided her little hand to rest where his had the moment before, explaining, “The baby’s kicking. Can you feel that?”  


Violet nodded, and smushed her face against Bucky’s belly. She scented him unrepentantly, then said, “Hi, baby. I’m Violet.”  


For the rest of the late morning and early afternoon, Bucky’s cousins surrounded him like his very own phalanx of baby warriors, touching his belly and rubbing up in his scent. At first, his aunts and uncles expressed their embarrassment and tried to steal their children away, but after several consecutive tantrums, Bucky said, “It’s okay. I get it. At least they’ll stick close to me, right?”  


This worked right up until Bucky’s milk decided that watching his cousins roller skate at the indoor rink was a good time to start welling to the surface, staining his shirt. His cheeks heated when he realized what was happening, and Steve must have been able to sniff something out, because he skated to stop where Bucky leaned over the rail to mask his situation. This wasn’t the first time this happened, though it was the most public.  


“You okay?” asked Steve.   


“Fine. Just, uh, a shirt situation,” Bucky replied.  


“A shirtuation?” suggested Steve.  


Bucky couldn’t contain his exasperated groan. “You’ve known you’re gonna be a dad for less than twenty-four hours, and you’re already making dad jokes? No God can save me now.”  


“Yup,” Steve cheerfully agreed, “C’mon, I’ll take off my skates and walk you back to the room.”  


While Steve changed back into his sturdy, black combat boots, Bucky held his leather jacket over the chest debacle. His eyes darted to his relatives, all of whom thankfully seemed none the wiser.  


As soon as Steve’s laces were tied, he scooped Bucky against him and kissed the side of his head. Easy. Uncomplicated. The new touches were mere extensions of what they did before, and the naturalness should have surprised Bucky, maybe. It didn’t, though. As Steve shielded Bucky and tugged him along to the room, that nothing seemed to have changed occurred to Bucky.  


“You got your binder thingie?” asked Steve, once they were safely ensconced in the room. The offending bedding had been changed, and the cleaning staff doubled up on the plug-in scent diffusers. The stink of their mating underlaid the attempt at cleansing, but Bucky gave the fresh room an A for effort.   


Steve helped Bucky out of his jacket and ruined t-shirt (thankfully not one of his favorites), and into the weird titty-sling type thing made for male omegas. They didn’t form breasts, per se, but things got a little weird in the nipple area and from time to time required some intervention. The second trimester nipple shit was making him insane, but at least Steve didn’t seem remotely fazed by tugging a sports-bra-shaped, spongy thing over Bucky’s pecs.   


Steve tugged at the elastic band at the bottom and asked, “How’s that feel?”  


“As good as it’s gonna get,” mumbled Bucky, “This sucks. When is this freeloader coming out already?”  


Steve reeled Bucky in for a hug and kissed him, all gentle and sweet and nothing like Brock had ever been. He said, “February, if he’s on time.”  


Bucky laughed a little, then worried his lip as he surveyed the contents of his suitcase. None of his own shirts appealed to him. He wanted Steve’s scent to cocoon him, wanted the comfort that an alpha gave to an omega. He could ask for that now, instead of covertly stealing Steve’s dirty laundry to line his nest and disguising the evidence under blankets.  


“Can I wear one of your shirts?” Bucky asked.  


“Sure,” Steve grinned, and broke from Bucky’s side to go forearms-deep in his own suitcase. He pulled out a couple of neatly folded t-shirts, lay them on the bed, and asked, “Beach Boys or Oingo Boingo?”  


“Oingo Boingo me, I love me some Elfman,” Bucky said, and stuck his arm in the air.   


After Steve helped him redress, he asked, “Feeling better?”  


Bucky sighed. He didn’t like the binder, but Steve’s scent on him called forth a calm that didn’t come to him easily. Perhaps the solidity of ‘mates’ meant that Steve, now more than ever, settled the loose gears turning cockamamie in his mind. The stress of well-meaning but nosy family wore on him, but Steve’s presence was like steel in his bones. Bucky could have done this alone, perhaps, but he didn’t have to.  


“I’m all right,” Bucky said, “Let’s get back into the fray.”  


They slipped back out to the main body of their lodge. Their room opened out directly to the belly of the beast, a common room with couches, a couple of tables, and a bevy of boardgames with missing pieces. A soda machine and coffee station stood alongside a large fireplace, while a taxidermy deer stared down at them from above it. Steve made a beeline for the coffee station, where he poured some coffee and powder creamer into a Dixie cup while Bucky leaned on the back of one of the couches, examining his nails. Something about the whole pregnancy business made his nails stronger, which was bizarre, but not unwelcome.   


“Oh, hey,” he heard, from down the hall.  


There stood Becca, wearing her glasses instead of contacts, her dark hair brushed back into a ponytail, and sweatpants incongruent to the mustard-colored peacoat buttoned over her torso.   


“Hey, how was your flight?” asked Bucky.  


“Ugh. All those smells,” Becca complained, “Anyway, I have a room to myself, so that’s nice. Where’s – ah. What’s up, Steve?”  


When Steve turned with his coffee, Becca’s face went white. Her eyes darted to Bucky, fell to his neck and returned to Steve, whose bite sat a little higher on his throat than Bucky’s did, more obvious against his paler skin. She opened and closed her mouth several times, then dropped the handle of her rolling suitcase to press her hands to either side of her head.   


“I’m – Christ on a cracker, it’s about damn time,” she decided upon saying, “Congrats? I think? I hope I’m not hallucinating. When the hell did this happen? I could have sworn you two were still dancing around each other like three days ago.”  


“Yesterday,” Bucky told her, “Last night. Less than twenty-four hours ago.”  


“Did everyone freak out? What happened?” Becca wanted to know.  


“Um,” Bucky said, “You took sex ed. I hope you know what happens when you mate.”  


“Gross, Bucky,” Becca said. She shook her head, but she smiled anyway, and opened her arms to both of them. “Come on you two, bring it in. I’ve been waiting for this moment for as long as I can fucking remember. I really wanna hug this one out.”  


Bucky shrugged and Steve laughed, but they both accepted one of Becca’s arms, letting her curl them into her weird airport-dweller college-student outfit. Her alpha smell dusted both of them, pleased and relieved and loving all at once.   


The popping sensation against his insides started up as they all let go, and Bucky dragged Becca’s hand over to feel the kid being rowdy. Then, Bucky turned a salacious grin on Steve and said, “Hey, I was thinking. Remember my dare last night? You totally did it. You gave the kid a wakeup call, didn’t you? Like, knock knock, son, here’s my dick. Get the fuck up and start moving.”  


Steve spat out his coffee.  


Becca shouted, “Ew!”  


Bucky cackled.  


Bucky’s family may have stressed him out sometimes, but he lived for the moments like this, when he could stand with his sister and Steve, his _mate_ , and be together, because together was where they were meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snow Mountain Ranch is basically kid heaven. They really do have a tubing hill and a roller rink, as well as a pool, a rock-climbing wall, mini golf, tennis courts, and a whole lot of other stuff I can't remember off the top of my head. Not to be an advertisement or anything, but it is a pretty cool place.
> 
> To clarify Bucky's family surprises: his granddad, before he passed, came out as trans. There are a few different ways that being transgender or nonbinary in this universe works. You can experience dysphoria with your sex (male/female) or your designation (alpha/beta/omega) or both. In Bucky's grandfather's case, he experienced dysphoria regarding his designation. Bucky's aunt Jen is polyamorous, which in 2018 is more commonly seen than it was when she brought two alphas to the Barnes Family Reunion 1992.


	16. Apple of my Eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, everyone, sorry this took such a long time (for me). This week has been so chaotic with work and family that I'm actually giving up and posting the emergency chapter -- so updates from here may or may not be timed strangely and a little less frequently, depending on how weird work keeps being. Thanks for being patient!

**Chapter Sixteen**

**Chapter Track: Home – Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros**

**_Apple of my Eye_**  


  


All things considered, their behavior was tame for a newly-mated couple. The average honeymooning mates didn’t leave the bedroom for anything short of the bare necessities, but circumstances as they were required Bucky and Steve to socialize and make nice with family, all the while desperate to put their hands on one another, to be skin on skin, to fill and be filled, to bask in the scent that belonged to both of them.  


They compensated by toeing the line of being tactile at a socially acceptable level, tucking into each other’s sides and trading casual (perhaps some less-than-casual) kisses, and heated looks that promised more later.  


In between stolen embraces, they weathered being the talk of the Barnes Family Reunion 2018: the best friends that pretended to be mated only to end up being mated for real.   


Every member of Bucky’s family had something to say about their relationship.  


One evening at each reunion, the entire family donned matching t-shirts for photos. This year, Bucky’s omega cousin Max designed them, his drawing of a flower wreath circling the Barnes name emblazoned on blue cotton. Max, barely fourteen, blushed profusely when Steve complimented the artwork, a bashfulness borne from the praise of someone that was both a handsome alpha and an accomplished artist. Bucky let Steve and Max yammer about art together, and played with the little ones attracted by his pregnant scent.   


In the official photos of the reunion, the bites on Steve and Bucky’s necks stood stark as nearby stars in a night sky. Far more damning in the book of family legend were the pictures snapped beforehand, of Bucky among the Bubbe Brigade and Steve draped in grinning children, their throats blank canvasses.   


“Was it that obvious the whole time?” Bucky asked Becca, at breakfast on the final day of the reunion. They’d be out of their rooms before noon. Bucky mourned the loss of his family as eagerly as he yearned to be back in his nest.  


Becca pursed her lips and blew all the air from her lungs.  


“Yeah, dude. Super obvious. For as long as I can remember, you two were way more than friends. It was – special. I remember being jealous, actually. I wanted to know why I didn’t have a Steve. I literally cried about it to dad. Did you know that? He told me that you and Steve weren’t just friends. He said you were something different, and we had to wait for you to figure it out. We didn’t realize we’d have to wait so long, and trying to move you the fuck along made you dig your heels in more. We are _relieved;_ believe me.”  


“Natasha told me a while back that me and Steve were effectively mated. I thought about it a lot, but I didn’t wanna get my hopes up, you know? And after Brock...” Bucky chewed his lip, discomfort brewing. Brock messed up a lot of things in him, and he hated that one of those was the way that he interacted with Steve. Sure, he didn’t flinch like he used to, and the aroma of Steve’s anger now stirred only the slightest fear, but he might never be the same. Something in Bucky’s brain changed fundamentally, a pathway traversed so often he no longer knew how to walk anything else.  


Steve loved him, but Bucky didn’t know how to curb the dread at the notion that that love might someday stop.   


Brock didn’t begin their courtship with his fists. He slid into Bucky’s life with bouquets of flowers and smooth lines that in retrospect were cliché. At the time, their relationship felt like a whirlwind romance, the kind of things you watched in romcoms and omega flicks.   


Steve wasn’t the same as Brock. He wasn’t. But remembering that Brock began with intimacy and laughter threw Bucky’s brain for a loop. How could he trust his own mind?   


The logical half of him said that he’d known Steve his whole life. Steve wasn’t that kind of alpha. His terrified hindbrain told him that Steve was still _an_ alpha, and wondered if he could ever trust another alpha to romance him again.   


“I’m so angry,” Bucky sputtered, “I know I’ve said that before, but Brock screwed me up. I have Steve and that helps, but the messed up part of me is still the same. It’s not that I thought mating Steve would erase the past or cure me – and don’t get me wrong, it’s like this missing piece is in the right place – but nothing got fixed. I’m still backwards and terrified of being alive.”  


“But you have someone to be backwards and terrified with you,” Becca pointed out.   


Bucky glanced over to where Steve stood several feet away, regaling Aunt Nancy with a story punctuated by wild hand gestures. Steve caught Bucky’s eye, and as he did, his face lit up. He winked at Bucky, and then dove back into his conversation. A bloom of warmth opened up behind Bucky’s ribs. He could feel his dopey smile, but he didn’t care. He was in love, and he wanted everyone to know it.   


Maybe he was scared, but...Becca was right.  


“Yeah,” said Bucky, “I do.”  


The family spent what remained of the final breakfast catching up their last and saying goodbyes. The kids hovered around Bucky and got their last bicep-rides from Steve. Bucky enjoyed the last he’d see of his parents and youngest sisters until December, when they had their Christmas-Hanukkah combined winter holiday extravaganza, provided Bucky was able to travel being a million times more pregnant than he was now. Steve swapped art tumblrs with Max, because they were both ridiculous nerds in the same ridiculous family.   


Packing went without a hitch, if one didn’t count pausing to make out a hitch. Bucky tried to resist, but how could he, when Steve looked all strapping in flannel and leather and his traveling jeans? His beard scratched against Bucky’s face – sensitive from rubbing against that beard many times in the last handful of days – and when they finally decided to part, Steve said, “I’m leaving a hundred for the cleaning staff.”  


“That’s probably a wise idea,” Bucky said.  


Leaving behind the place that he and Steve became mates was almost as difficult as leaving behind his family. They were all holy terrors, the Barnses, but they were loving, well-meaning, wonderful humans – that would never let Bucky’s decisions go, but wonderful humans nonetheless. With a heaving exhale, Bucky cast his eyes at the lodge room one last time. One queen bed lay untouched, while the other was torn to shreds, pillows askew and comforter rolled into a tangled ball at the foot of the mattress. In the middle of the sheets, Steve’s hundred-dollar bill lay flat with a thank you note.  


Hopefully that in addition to having their contact information for the inevitable deep cleaning would make up for the mess they made.   


Outside, as Steve loaded their belongings into the trunk of their rental, Bubbe (Prime) approached Bucky. She was a formidable woman, the type of omega that generations passed down the stories of. Though she stood at a mere five-foot-two, her iron-straight spine and sharp eyes afforded her the presence of someone much larger. She never stopped heeding the meticulous manner in which she dressed, and even here in the mountains on a dirt parking lot she sported leather slingback sandals and a white linen pantsuit. How she kept any of her ensemble dirt-free both bewildered and impressed Bucky.   


“Hey, Bubbe,” he greeted, cautious. She hadn’t spoken to him since Thursday morning, when Steve and Bucky arrived at breakfast with fresh bites on their throats.  


“You know, Jamie, I’m not stupid,” Bubbe told him.  


“I didn’t think you were?” he replied, confused.   


Bubbe eyed him. “Yes, you did. You pretended that boy bit you and you thought I’d buy it. I don’t understand you, sometimes. Did you let Steve get you pregnant but not mate you? Is this some millennial thing?”  


Heat pinked Bucky’s cheeks. He glanced to Steve, hoping for backup, but he (seamlessly as he slipped into the family) was laughing at something that Bucky’s dad was saying, clutching his chest from the force of his guffaw.  


Bucky sighed. Bubbe always did ask the hard questions. (“Why aren’t you kosher?” to “Why didn’t you finish college?”)  


“For all intents and purposes, this kid is one hundred percent Steve’s, but he’s not the alpha that contributed the DNA,” Bucky confessed.  


“It was that awful Brock guy, wasn’t it?”  


“Uh. Yeah. How’d you know?” asked Bucky.  


“Well, last year’s Hanukkah-Christmas mashup was a little miserable without you. We talked about that Brock, how he didn’t treat you right. Seemed a little convenient for you to turn up out of nowhere after all that with a new alpha and a baby on the way,” Bubbe laid her hand on Bucky’s arm. The blue veins stood out against papery skin, but Bucky knew better than to think of Bubbe as frail. She continued, “We all wished you’d talk to us. It was hard not to see my grandson.”  


Great. Now Bucky was going to go and do something stupid, like cry. His eyes watered and the scent of distress jacked up enough for Steve to jerk his attention right to Bucky. Bucky waved him off, but Steve frowned and kept watching anyway.   


What Brock did to Bucky’s relationships with his family and friends rankled him to the core. Up until this point, none of his loved ones spoke with such candor about how Bucky’s Brock-based decisions (if decisions they could be called) affected them. Steve touched on his feelings on the year without Bucky, but didn’t dive too deep.   


Trust Bubbe to tread where others didn’t dare to step.   


“I did some dumb shit because of Brock,” Bucky settled upon saying, “I expected to come back to nothing. I thought no one would want me home after that, because of what I chose to do.”  


“But you didn’t really choose anything, did you?” Bubbe pointedly said, “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve encountered a bad alpha or two in my time. I know how they work. I have been in your shoes.”  


The idea that Bubbe had ever been anything but bulletproof floored Bucky. This information, he knew, was something he was being entrusted to.  


“It gets easier, right?” Bucky inquired. He hated the way that his voice wavered on the question.  


Bubbe hummed. “Eventually. You might not be yourself for a while, but it looks to me like you have a lot of people willing to help. I hope you’ll count me among them.”  


Bucky gawked.  


“Don’t you look at me like that, Jamie. I love you. I worried for you. I’m glad that you have the alpha that you do now.” She drew him down into a hug, and Bucky went with an edge of surprise. Before Bubbe let him go, she kissed his cheek. She added, “Plus Steve looks like he knows how to use that knot of his.”  


“BUBBE,” Bucky gasped.  


“What? I’m only human. I’m just saying that you’re a lot less clenched up than you were when you got here.”  


Bucky couldn’t help it. He laughed, pulled his grandmother in for another hug, and said, “I love you too. Sorry...I, uh, didn’t talk to you about this stuff. I still don’t know how to talk about it at all sometimes. Thanks. For making me.”  


“You’re welcome, honey,” Bubbe said, tucking a lock of Bucky’s hair behind his ear, “Will I be seeing you in December?”  


“I don’t know,” responded Bucky, “I’ll be really goddamn pregnant by then. Maybe me and Steve can drive. I’ll figure it out.”  


“Well, I hope you’re there this year,” Bubbe told him.  


“I hope so too,” Bucky agreed, and he meant it. Missing their winter mashup made something in him truly ache. He spent Christmas with Brock, who, as far as Bucky knew, had no close family of which to speak. Bucky tried to liven up the day by listening to some Christmas tunes (Brock shut off the speakers, leaving the apartment eerily silent) and making wassail (which Brock refused to try) that he drank by himself. They agreed not to give each other presents – or rather, Brock told him they weren’t doing presents, because gift-giving was “so passé”.  


Last year’s December was the most miserable of Bucky’s life, and he counted his December in Iraq into that equation.  


With a final round of hugs and kisses and well-wishes, Bucky, Becca, and Steve climbed into the rental to drive to the airport for their evening flight.   


Far more exhausted than he realized, Bucky passed out on the drive down and out of the mountains. He didn’t reanimate until Steve prodded him awake at the rental car return, at which point they shuttled with their luggage back to Denver International Airport, past the bizarre blue demon horse that towered over the road.  


This time around, Bucky forewent his prosthesis and packed it into their checked bag rather than be hassled by TSA over it.   


Steve doubled down on the grumpy alpha routine. He hovered at Bucky’s heels and surveyed the crowds. When they settled at their gate, he draped his arm over Bucky’s shoulders and encouraged far too many McDonald’s fries into his mouth. Though Becca rolled her eyes every step of the way, strangers cast Bucky and Steve fond looks – a phenomenon unfamiliar until now. He supposed the new mating bites and doting alpha had something to do with it.   


Bucky couldn’t say he minded the attention. Maybe that was the base omega instinct talking – _look at my handsome alpha taking care of our family. Aren’t you jealous? Of course you are._  


“What kind of names do you think we should go with?” Bucky asked after they’d been seated – Bucky next to the aisle, Steve in the middle, Becca beside the window.  


Steve blinked a couple of times. “I get a say?” he said, tentative.  


“You’re his dad, dumbass; I fucking hope you get a say,” Bucky replied, “I’ve been thinking something classic. You know, like a character you’d read in and old book or, I dunno, something you name a dude born in 1918.”  


“I like that,” said Steve, smelling pleased and content, “Not William, though, like you said. We can’t do David, not after the Expectant Omega Designs incident. Let me brainstorm here.”  


“Phillip?” suggested Becca, “Marcus? Charles?”  


“Charles isn’t bad. He could go by Charlie,” Steve shrugged.  


“Okay, first of all, Becca doesn’t get a say on a name. Second, Charles doesn’t go with his middle name,” Bucky said.  


“He has a middle name already, but not a first?” ventured Steve.  


“Yes, and it’s non-negotiable,” Bucky answered, “He’s going to be Something Joseph Barnes-Rogers. Joseph for your dad, and Barnes before Rogers because I’m doing all of the heavy lifting.”  


Steve went dewy eyed and adopted that earnest look he had a habit of making when something got him all sappy. He murmured, “Buck, sweetheart, I gotta kiss you.”  


“I’m all yours,” Bucky answered back, which elicited a happy alpha rumble from Steve’s chest before he ducked in for a tender kiss. His peppermint chapstick softened his lips. Though Steve tasted of a lingering McDonald’s flavor, Bucky still dipped in close and savored him. Who cared? He was in love.   


“You guys are gross,” Becca whined, “I don’t even know if this is better or worse than your whole ‘we’re just friends’ song and dance. On one hand, I’ve suffered your stupidity for most of my life. On the other, I’m going to be suffering this shit for the rest of it. Tough fucking call.”  


Bucky leaned his head on Steve’s shoulder, reveling in the soft scent of _mate_. Perhaps he should have known earlier that Steve was the one – everyone knew the smell of one’s mate compared to no other, transcended the scent of every loved one and made a new territory all its own. Bucky, the idiot, lived so long in Steve’s pockets that the wonderment of the scent eluded him. Steve smelled like Steve, an all-encompassing, magnificent scent that meant _best friend_. Who knew that scent also meant mate?  


What a pair of dummies they were.  


For the remainder of the flight, Steve and Bucky shot names at each other with the occasional interjection from Becca, but nothing stuck. They agreed they’d discuss names more when they weren’t travel-weary and desperate for home, and refocused their attention on co-playing a game of Word Crossy.   


As soon as they were in New York, Steve dropped Becca at her apartment, where they hugged some more and fired off yet another round of goodbyes, promising to be better about hanging out, before Steve and Bucky returned to their own place.  


Relieved, Bucky dropped his carry-on a mere two feet from the front door and sprawled across his nest. The combined aroma of Bucky and Steve wafted up from the careful arrangement of blankets and pillows. For a long, blissful moment, all was right in the world.  


Perhaps spurred into action by his father’s contentment, Something Joseph Barnes-Rogers wiggled and smacked against Bucky’s insides, disrupting the peace.  


“Ugh,” Bucky complained, “Your son is being rude.”  


Steve appeared above the nest, his shy little grin on his face. “Can I get in and feel? Get in the nest, I mean.”  


Bucky scooted. He hadn’t yet shared this sacred space, but to have Steve join him in it felt right. Steve climbed inside the nest behind Bucky and plastered his chest to Bucky’s back. He pecked a gentle kiss to the mating bite on Bucky’s throat, then slid his hands over the bump where their son was celebrating their return home with some triumphant kicking.   


“What about Edward?” said Bucky.  


“Eh. We can put it on the shortlist. We can’t do George and we can’t do James, unless you’re up for that kind of thing.”  


“And be forced to call my son ‘Junior’? I’m good, thanks,” Bucky heaved his millionth sigh of the day. Who knew trying to name his kid would tire him out so much?  


Steve hummed in thought. He propped his chin on Bucky’s shoulder and nuzzled along his neck, interspersing the scratch of his beard with tiny brushes of his lips. “What about Henry? That’s a classic.”  


“Henry,” echoed Bucky, tasting the name in his mouth. “Henry Joseph Barnes-Rogers. I actually kind of love that. You like it? You think it sounds good?”  


“It’s perfect,” Steve answered, and patted the baby bump with a, “Hey, Henry. High five!”  


The baby kicked up at Steve’s palm.  


“He likes it too,” Bucky chuckled, and then fell silent before musing, “Henry Joseph Barnes-Rogers. Can’t wait to meet you, kid.”


	17. Knots in the Laces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the amount of time between updates. Everything in my life is on fire, but I'm trying.

**Chapter Seventeen**

**Heart It Races – Architecture in Helsinki**

**_Knots in the Laces_ **

  


Time marched on, although not fast enough, if you asked Bucky.  


The furniture for the nursery arrived, heaved up three flights of stairs by two burly delivery alphas and Steve, who insisted upon supervising. The delivery alphas, a thick woman and square man, took the hovering in stride. Bucky supposed that in the line of delivering nursery furniture one often encountered overbearing alphas and their sheepish, pregnant omegas.   


The boxes of unassembled nursery furniture did not actually go inside the nursery, however. They sat in the living room, leaned up against the wall between the bookcase and the kitchen, as Steve didn’t want to be crowded while he painted the mural for their baby.   


The mural took shape in stages: first, the silhouettes of trees and mountains appeared, layered on in sloppy pencil, followed then by the spires of a castle and the body of an enormous dragon. From time to time, Bucky paused in the doorway of the room to watch Steve work, his muscles moving beneath his shirt as he perched on a stepladder sketching the shape of leathery wings with a charcoal pencil before he filled the gaps with paint.   


Bold blocks of color appeared next: hearty browns and emerald greens and shimmering golds.   


In the midst of it all, Bucky and Steve began to shop for supplies. They bought tiny little clothes, soft sheets for the crib mattress, cute hats and little stuffed toys. Sarah warned both of them that they’d better not buy any blankets, a warning eerily similar to Winnie’s, “So help me God, this child will not suffer a store-bought blankie. Do you hear me, Bucky?”  


They didn’t buy everything, because Clint – somehow – was in charge of organizing Bucky’s baby shower, an event Bucky was told involved gift-giving. Knowing their friends, he would drown in presents and probably feel guilty for costing so much money, but he tried to set the anxiety aside and enjoy the outpouring of love for his son, unborn as he was.  


Bucky did, despite knowing there would soon be gifts, insist upon getting a little skeleton suit for his child. Sure, Halloween would long be over by the time that Henry made his debut, but a skeleton suit was a year-round kind of garment, if you asked him.   


The little outfits lived in shopping bags on the floor of his and Steve’s closet while the guest room transformed into the nursery, but occasionally Bucky took them out from their tissue-paper wrappings to admire them. He rested his palm over Henry, who’d begun jauntily dancing at any given moment of the day. Henry didn’t seem to appreciate that he lived in a borrowed space, not that Bucky could evict him from it.   


Still. He’d appreciate a little less ballroom on his bladder when he was trying to sell memberships to gym-goers or attempting to enjoy some sleepy cuddling with Steve in front of the television.  


On the first of November, Bucky returned to Stark Tower. Knowing what awaited him in Tony’s lab abetted the anxiety that threatened to surface, and true to form, they found Stark rolling around on the concrete floor in what appeared to be jogging leggings and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt with holes around the collar. His bare feet stuck out from under him, and his hair stood on end, lending him the appearance of a scheming cockatoo.   


Though the music wasn’t as loud as it was during Bucky’s first visit to the lab, a guitar riff stuttered from a speaker somewhere, hidden away to maintain the sleek (albeit lived-in) appearance of the space.  


“Murder-Face, my love, welcome back,” Tony called, “and Battering Ram. Have a seat. I’ve got a prototype here for you and I’m dying to see how it pans out.”  


For several long seconds, Tony rummaged among his things, batting away affectionate robots in between clangs of metal and parts. When he whirled back to face them, a gleaming, silver arm lay draped across his lap. Tony whisked forward and ordered, “Left side, please.”  


Bucky twisted, and Tony laid the arm so that it rested against the back of the couch, approximately in line with Bucky’s bad side. He made a noise of thought. Tony’s eyes darted to Steve and he ordered, “Hey, Knottinghamshire, mind holding your friend’s arm up to the shoulder? I wanna see how this looks, aesthetic-wise.”  


Steve took the prototype prosthesis in hand. The plates that formed the impression of muscle glinted under the arc reactor-powered lights overhead. Tony scooted back on his wheeled stool to sit several paces back from the couch. He scratched his fingers through his goatee (a bold fashion choice for an omega, and something that Bucky appreciated in Tony) and shifted his mouth from side to side.  


“Have you been working out?” Tony eventually asked. “Your bicep looks bigger. Weird how you notice more when you back the hell up for a second. Literally. Hey, whoa, do you two have mating bites? I turn my back for five minutes, and you’re mated? Goddamn, they grow up fast.”  


The familiarity of the question startled Bucky. Was he naive in not realizing that he and Tony Stark were friends in some capacity, or is this how Stark treated every stray that crossed his doorstep? Perhaps, he mused, Tony adopted all the projects that he took on.  


As if to demonstrate, the claw-robot lowered a questionably-colored smoothie in front of Tony. Stark took the glass, patted the robot’s neck, and said, “Thank you, Dum-E, that’s charming. I was looking to be poisoned today. Maybe that’ll get the board off my back, huh?” To Steve and Bucky, Tony added: “The bigwigs have their panties in a bunch because of this whole prosthetics thing. They want me to be working on their time, which is frankly cute. We’ve got a development team, but nobody’s going to provide like I can. And, for fuck’s sake, the world can live without another StarkPhone coming out for another couple months.”  


Bucky tilted his head back to look at Steve, who shrugged.   


That they didn’t have anything to say didn’t appear to matter to Tony, who pressed on without a care. “Okay, so, what I’m seeing here is that I’m going to have to adjust your new prosthesis to mimic the muscle you’re building and/or losing on your squishy side. That’s not the easiest fix in the world, sure, but I’m me, so it’s going to happen. It’s gonna require some creativity with those plates, and a little more programming, but I can swing it. When’s that kid coming out?”  


“Oh,” Bucky said, fingers slipping to rest on Henry, “He’s due in February.”  


“February,” Tony repeated, then went on, “Okay. February. You’ll probably need some recovery time, of course, being ripped open by a vicious baby, but maybe you’ll be good to go by mid-March. What do you think?”  


“Good to go for what?” Bucky said. He could follow some of the disjointed thoughts that passed Stark’s lips, but not all of them.   


“Installing the prosthesis, duh,” replied Tony, “Don’t freak out, but it’s going to require an itty-bitty little tiny bit of surgery.”  


Bucky clammed up in an instant.

The scent of his fear shot out into the lab like poison darts, and the enthusiasm drained out of Tony’s face. He pulled a face, held up his palms, and said, “Okay. All right. If that doesn’t work, then I can come up with a different prototype. Something like what you have now, attachment-wise, but way cooler. Thoughts? What are you thinking? I can’t make this right if I don’t know what’s on your mind, so spit it out.”  


“Medical stuff makes me nervous,” Bucky admitted, “but...um. I. Uh. What are the benefits of doing it your way? With the surgery?”  


“Well, you wouldn’t have to worry about taking it on and off, first of all,” Tony said, “Although it will have that capability, if you need to chuck it for some reason. It’ll be easier for me to make it move like your other arm.”  


“How does it charge?” asked Bucky.  


“Oh, it doesn’t,” Tony said, “If I made an arm like a souped-up version of what you have now, _that_ baby would probably need to charge, unless I can think of a workaround, which isn’t coming to me at the moment. I guess I have a few months to sit on that, so I’ll get back to you on that front. Anyhoo, if I installed _this_ prototype, or whatever fancier iteration of it I’ll have for you in March, then it’ll function using your body’s electricity, like the rest of your limbs are doing.”  


“That sounds impossible,” Bucky said flatly.  


“Yeah?” Tony said, “So are holographic monitors for a portable computer interface, but here we are.” He tapped his hand against his watch, and a wide, blueish rectangle projected out of it. On the floating screen, a map of the prototype in Steve’s hands rotated, surrounded by blotches of text and notes that he couldn’t read from his seat on the couch.   


“Listen,” Tony carried on, “I work in the impossible. My entire job is thinking of things that no one has tried to tackle before. I promise this arm is going to do exactly what I say it will.”  


Bucky chewed on that thought. On one hand, he would return to medical setting on his own behalf, with a newborn under his wing and a mate that was one hundred percent going to be a nightmare about the entire situation. On the other, he’d regain mobility he thought would be forever lost to him, and never dreamed he’d ever get back.   


But Tony Stark worked in the impossible.  


“I have some questions,” Bucky ventured.  


“Shoot,” Tony said, tapping his wristwatch again so the screen retreated, “Hit me. I’m all ears.”  


“How long is the recovery period?” he asked, “I’m gonna have a kid. I can’t be laid up for weeks at a time.”  


“Realistically, probably a couple of days,” answered Tony, “with some longer-term PT with a couple of my specialists, so you can learn arm-having again. Once we get you out of surgery, your kiddo’s welcome to join us for the party.”  


“If everything goes according to plan, I’m gonna be breastfeeding,” Bucky said, “Is this gonna affect that?”  


“I don’t think it would, but then, I’m not actually a doctor,” Tony shrugged, “I’ll have to ask Brucey Bear about it and get back to you.”  


“Brucey Bear?” echoed Bucky.  


“Doctor Banner,” Tony said with a flop of his hand, “He’ll be the one in charge of getting you four-limbed and fabulous.”  


“Doctor Bruce Banner?” Bucky said, “Like the famous one?”  
  
“What, am I not famous enough for you now?” asked Tony, “How is Bruce more exciting than me? He doesn’t even care if he’s more exciting than me. Nevermind. Okay, how about this: I get in touch with Bruce and we can set up some kind of consult with him so he can answer the biology questions I don’t know the answer to.”  


“Sounds all right to me,” Bucky answered, “Can we – can we do it here? In your lab?”  


“Sure, why not? Bring the dynamic duo together. By that, I mean me and Bruce. Listen, my fine pregnant friend, I’m a genius, and so is Bruce, not that he’d ever call himself that. When we put our heads together, we make magic. Well, science. What’s that quote about magic being science that hasn’t been discovered yet? We make that. Whatever. No matter how it happens, we’re gonna build you the best fucking prosthesis the world has ever seen,” Tony clapped his hands together and planted his bare feet against the concrete floor, using his legs to propel him back toward them.   


“Now,” Tony said, “Let’s do some measuring.”

**

Their evenings passed in many ways. Most nights, Steve toiled away at his mural for Henry’s nursery, and each night he took his brushes to the wall, the fantastical scene of a proud, green dragon began to take on life. Some, they spent spooned together in Bucky’s nest while they watched TV. Steve seldom sat in his favorite armchair anymore, now content to plaster himself to Bucky’s back like the protective alpha he’d always wanted to be.   


Watching Bucky enjoy the nest from afar – okay, a few feet away – had filled heart’s Steve to the brim. Before their mating, his hindbrain still called to him to tell him that he’d done a good job in choosing his omega a nest, that his things lined the panels of it and their baby would grow knowing the scent of both of them together.  


(Okay, babies being able to scent their parents from inside the womb was a myth, but from time to time, sentiment went hand in hand with superstition.)  


The alpha enjoyment of watching Bucky in his nest increased tenfold when Steve enjoyed the nest with him. Bucky rolled his eyes and complained and teased, but he often pulled Steve’s hands to rest on the swell of their son. He smiled when Steve spoke to Henry, rambling nonsense about the nursery they were creating for him and how much fun they would have once he was there in their arms.   


Other nights still, Steve and Bucky kissed in the gentle lamplight of their bedroom. They’d shed their clothes and smooth their hands over skin and through hair. Steve’s rumble-purr appeared when Bucky scratched his short nails against the grain of Steve’s beard.   


Then they’d kiss more, Steve would slide into place inside Bucky, and they’d ride out their pleasure however the night demanded: slow and thoughtful, lazy and filled with laughter, hard and unrelenting.   


Steve had never wanted sex so much in his whole life. He’d wanted it with Peggy, all that time ago in high school. More often than not, he thought he wanted sex only to remember while it was happening that he didn’t always have fun doing it. Other times still, he had sex because his partner wanted it, and he had sex because it was a fun thing that partner wanted to do. A bonding experience, no different than going on a rollercoaster together or holding hands at the beach.   


With Bucky, sex was different. Steve wanted everything. He wanted every filthy thing he’d ever imagined.   


He wanted...things that alphas weren’t supposed to want. But he wasn’t a straight alpha, wasn’t the same as so many alphas were.   


One weekday evening, they lay together in their bed. Bucky dozed with his head in Steve’s lap, while Steve tried to reread one of the baby books on his StarkPad. The words wouldn’t come into focus no matter what he did, and he found himself scanning the same three sentences, his mind elsewhere. With Bucky so close, he often ended up at an uncomfortable half-mast at inopportune times, and tonight was one such night.   


Sometimes he didn’t bother to do anything about it – turned out Bucky just made him randy.   


But tonight...well. The desires Steve considered discussing with Bucky resurfaced.   


“You’re staring at me,” Bucky mumbled into Steve’s crotch, eyes opening to slits, “Wanna do it?”  


Steve laughed a little. He set the StarkPad aside on the bedside table, reassured by Bucky’s gentle taunting. He ran his fingers back through Bucky’s hair, so thick and soft. A little tug at the roots cajoled a mewl from Bucky’s throat, and he pushed up into a sitting position.  


“You’re all quiet. What’s up?”  


The thing about having Bucky as a mate was that while Bucky before the bite could read Steve like a book, Bucky after the bite seemed to be able to read his mind.   


Steve fidgeted. He tried to form the words, but his voice stuck in his throat.  


“Sweetheart, you’re freaking me out,” Bucky told him, frowning now.  


And oh, no, that wouldn’t do. Steve wouldn’t upset his omega. That simply was not in the cards.  


“It’s nothing bad,” he rushed to say, “I just wanted to ask if we can do something.”  


“Like, sexually?”   


Steve puffed up his cheeks, sighed, and nodded.  


“So, what? You’re not usually this weird about it. You wanna knot my mouth or something? ‘Cause it’s not comfy but if you wanna try it, then I’m up for it. Maybe after the baby comes, though. I don’t want there to be a whole oxygen situation, you know?”  


“It’s not that,” ventured Steve, “It’s, well. I’ve never tried it, but I want to. I really want to. And I’m trying to think of a way to ask that doesn’t sound weird.”  


“Don’t worry,” Bucky cheerfully said, “You already made it weird.”  


“Thanks,” Steve dryly replied.  


After a breath of silence, Bucky nudged Steve with his shoulder. He said, “Come on, punk, you can tell me. Even if I’m not into it, I’m not gonna get mad at you for asking. Isn’t that part of the deal? Having conversations about sex like adults?”  


“I’m not an adult,” Steve muttered, “I’m several hundred lizards in a trench coat.”  


Bucky smacked his arm. “Just tell me. It’s just me.”  


Steve drank Bucky in, then. His hair hung loose around his shoulders, disheveled from his half-nap in Steve’s lap. The t-shirt he wore once belonged to Steve, a free t-shirt he won in a raffle when he donated blood a few years back, splattered with an entire rainbow’s worth of paint. Sweatpants hung low on Bucky’s hips, a soft, expensive pair of sleep pants with pockets.   


Sure, Steve agreed, having Bucky like this was a layer of new intimacy, but Bucky never stopped being Steve’s best friend. They told each other everything, so why should a little sex thing be any different?  


“I wondered,” Steve started, then faltering, but Bucky leaned forward to rest his head on Steve’s shoulder, and he found strength enough to say, “I wondered if you might fuck me.”  


“Like me inside you?” asked Bucky, head back up and alert.  


“Is that too weird?” asked Steve.  


A slow smiled edged up on Bucky’s face.  


“No, sweetheart,” Bucky assured him, “It’s not weird. It’s, ah, that’s actually really hot. I’ve never tried that before. We’d have to buy some stuff to make that work, though.”  


“Um, well...” Steve trailed off. He scooted to the edge of the mattress and popped open the bottom drawer of his nightstand, where he’d stashed his purchase, wrapped in its discreet plastic bag and shoved to the back behind some old sketchbooks, in case Bucky didn’t like his idea. He unrolled the bottle from the bag and presented it on the mattress.   


The bottle of synthetic slick looked up at both of them. It wouldn’t smell the same as an omega, but Steve thought synth-slick smelled nice anyway, the way that cherry chapstick didn’t smell like real cherries but was appealing nonetheless.   


Bucky grinned a little. He ran the pad of his thumb over the label. Steve went for one of the more expensive brands, something organic and environment-friendly, or so the artisan-style label claimed. He didn’t like the lubricants branded toward alphas, with names like “MACHINE GUN” and “DESTROYER.” He didn’t particularly want to be destroyed – at least not while trying something for the first time.   


“You gave this some thought, huh?” asked Bucky.  


Steve shrugged a shoulder and said, “I’ve thought about it a lot. I bought this the day after we got back from the reunion.”  


Bucky cocked a brow. “You wanna try it now?” he asked.  


A rush of heat darted from Steve’s brain to his belly, settling low in his balls and perking up his cock. That same heat flooded his cheeks and burned his ears, but Bucky didn’t make fun of him for blushing. Instead, he cupped Steve’s face in one palm and drew him into a tender kiss, nothing that promised sex yet, but a reassurance that Bucky was there and listening.   


“You do wanna try it now,” Bucky said, breathily. Color stained the apples of his cheeks.  


Apparently, Steve wasn’t the only one that liked the idea of being fucked by his omega.  


His omega seemed partial to the idea too.  


He grinned back at Bucky. All at once, his nerves washed away, replaced by that adrenaline-junkie soar of being in on something secret with Bucky. He captured Bucky’s mouth in a new, vehement kiss, and Bucky gave as good as he got. He slid into Steve’s lap, straddling him, and curled his arm around the back of Steve’s neck to bring him in closer.  


Bucky’s tongue slid hot and heavy against his own, slow and exploring, before he leaned back again. He jerked the borrowed shirt up over his head, mussing his hair, then tugged a little at the elastic band of the binder. Steve helped, slipping his hands up and under the slightly damp padding to pull it away from Bucky’s pecs.  


“Guh,” Bucky intoned, when Steve drew his thumb across one nipple, swiping at a bead of moisture, of the milk that would feed their child.   


“Sensitive,” Steve said quietly.  


“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, “but this isn’t about me.” He guided Steve’s hand away from him, then commanded, voice level, “I want you to get naked.”  


Steve chucked his shirt across the room, and, not wanting to leave the bed, pushed Bucky away just long enough to wriggle out of his lounge pants. Beneath them, he went without underwear, as he often did, now. He and Bucky loved sleepy morning sex, which he’d come to enjoy being ready for at a moment’s notice. Though by now they knew each other’s bodies as well as their own, Steve still blushed, the pink flooding from face to chest as he languished under Bucky’s hungry gaze.   


“You know how this works?” asked Bucky.  


Steve nodded. “I’ve...researched.”  


Bucky barked a short laugh. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” he asked. He plucked the bottle of lube up from the mattress and went on, “How d’you wanna make this happen? Want me to open you up, or you wanna do it? What’s your vision, Stevie?”  


Steve’s blush deepened ever-further. He bent his legs at the knee and opened them, equal parts embarrassed and thrilled by the sensation of being on display. He cleared his throat and answered, “I was thinking you’d, um, finger me, and then we could try whatever way’s easiest with the bump?”  


“I’m not too big yet,” Bucky said, “I could take you like this, with your legs all spread out, face to face, so I can kiss you as much as I want.”  


Steve swallowed and nodded. “That...that sounds great. Let’s do that.”  


Steve’s blood sang through him and his heart clamored as he watched Bucky try to get a handle on the bottle of synth-slick. Kneeling between Steve’s legs, he clamped it with his knees and squeezed to pour a generous dollop of lubricant onto his hand. The fake omega scent billowed around them, sweet, but not unpleasant. Through it, Steve could still smell the conifer-honeysuckle fragrance of Bucky and the ripe scent that promised Henry, and those were what mattered.  


“A little wider,” Bucky said, and Steve obeyed, propping his legs open with his heels dug into their comforter.   


Steve knew what they looked like: pregnant omega tall over a muscled, bearded alpha, positioned between spread legs. The scene was incongruent with everything they knew to be true of the alpha-omega dynamic and was everything that Steve wanted.   


In measured movements, Bucky circled Steve’s hole with a slick, curious finger. Steve had tried this part before when he was alone. He liked the pressure of something inside him when he knotted his fist, but when Bucky’s finger slid into place, he knew that this was going to be better than anything that he could do to himself. Bucky thrust the finger in and out. He watched Steve’s face and Steve watched back, unspeaking, afraid that if he made a noise that the moment might shatter in his grip.  


“Good,” Bucky said, soothing, “You’re doin’ great, sweetheart.”  


“You do this all the time,” Steve protested, “You don’t have to talk to me like I’m a scared horse.”  


Bucky laughed and said, “I’m trying to be sexy, okay? Besides, my body’s built for a big-ass knot. Yours isn’t. Let me be nice to you.”  


The pressure of two fingers inside him burned a little at the edges, but Steve loved it. He rocked his body forward, seeking more, and Bucky gave it to him. He pushed with his fingers, patient and stretching, and let Steve ride against them. Steve might have been embarrassed had this been anyone else with their hand in his body, but with Bucky, safety and love overtook any trepidation he might otherwise have felt. Bucky loved him, loved him enough to try something new, something that macho-alphas sneered at.   


“I need some more slick on my hand,” Bucky said, “Can you do it? This might have been easier if I were wearing my arm.”  


“I got it,” Steve said, and sat up just enough to pry the bottle of synth-slick from between Bucky’s thighs. He tipped the bottle to drizzle lube on Bucky’s hand, the cool liquid a stark contrast to Bucky’s warm hand inside him. He gasped, but leaned into the touch when Bucky dared guide a third digit into Steve’s waiting body.  


Under Bucky’s ministrations, the tense, scared part of Steve gave way to luxurious feeling. He closed his eyes and let Bucky do him in.  


“All right, I need your help again for this part,” Bucky said, and Steve’s eyes fluttered back open. He inclined his head at the abandoned bottle of slick and said, “Get my cock wet, will you?”  


Eager all over again, Steve rose to near-sitting, long enough to snatch the slick bottle back up again and gaze between their bodies. From beneath the swell of Bucky’s belly, his cock curved up, cut and red with need, bigger than anyone expected of an omega but perfect for Steve. He poured lube over it and Bucky sucked a breath in through his teeth.   


“You ready?” Bucky asked him, “Hold your legs open.”  


The blunt head of Bucky’s cock pressed to the entrance of Steve’s body, stretched and waiting. His breath caught at the first breach into his body. He knew he wanted this, but nothing could prepare him for the all-encompassing feeling of being filled up, a feeling that lit up every nerve in Steve’s body even as Bucky was only halfway inside.  


Bucky paused, eyes flicking over Steve’s form, taking in the blush and the sweat Steve felt at his temples and on his chest. Bucky wet his lips with the tip of his tongue and said, “Tell me if it’s too much, Stevie.”  


“I’m good,” Steve promised, “Just – full. Keep going. But slow.”  


“It’s intense,” Bucky agreed, “I’ve – _shit_ – never felt anything like this before.”  


Within several heavy breaths, Bucky locked into Steve’s body to the root of his cock. Both of them sat without moving for some time, each overwhelmed by sensation they’d never experienced before. Panting, Bucky rested his forehead against one of Steve’s knees.   


“Tell me when you’re ready,” Bucky hummed against his leg. He pecked a kiss to Steve’s knee, then shifted back up and uncurled his spine to straight. His eyes bore into Steve’s, serious but pupils blown wide. Bucky trembled, barely visible, but a reminder that he was just as new to this as Steve was.  


“I’m ready,” Steve shot back, “Are you ready?”  


“As ready as I’ll ever be, Rogers,” Bucky said, and planted his hand on the mattress beside Steve’s head. He smothered Steve with a kiss, a distraction, as he withdrew halfway from Steve’s body and rolled back in again, testing and easy-going as they tried to find their rhythm. A soft, happy sound made its way out of Steve’s mouth, huffing against Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky took it as encouragement. He pulled out and pushed in again, over and over, his tempo relaxed and searching.   


Steve framed Bucky’s face with his hands and kissed him with everything he had. Being filled with Bucky beat every fantasy he’d ever had. Nothing could have prepared him for the thrust of Bucky’s hips into him while his belly rubbed against Steve’s abdomen, round and perfect. No amount of self-exploration in the shower could amount to being handled and opened up by his omega, by Bucky, by his best friend.  


“You can go harder,” Steve told him, “I’m not gonna break.” Now he sounded like Bucky. Now he understood what Bucky meant when he said that.   


“It’s your first time,” Bucky said back, “I’m trying to be considerate.”  


“While I appreciate that,” Steve said, pecking kisses to Bucky’s face as he moved inside him, “Be less considerate. C’mon and fuck me. Dare you.”  


Bucky narrowed his eyes. He seized Steve’s mouth in a hard kiss, then doubled down.  


Neither of them ever could resist a dare.  


Their bodies fell into a messy rhythm. Bucky slipped out and Steve guided him back in. They laughed, then sighed, then lost their words as Bucky fucked harder into Steve, as their languid exploration gave way to chasing orgasms. Steve fisted his cock, squeezing the budding knot at the base, and worked his palm over the length at a furious pace.  


The build in his belly said _soon_. The weight of Bucky in him bouncing against his sweet spot made his vision go spotty and his brain go stupid. All he could think was that his omega was taking care of him in spectacular fashion, and he was helpless, could only ride the wave of Bucky driving inside his body over and over.  


Steve’s orgasm punched out of him, a riptide erupting over him and sweeping him under. He couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, only released the loudest rumble of alpha pleasure his body ever managed to make, purring as come spilled onto his abdomen and Bucky’s hips began to stutter.  


“Come inside me,” Steve whispered.  


Bucky did, hips stilling and moisture gleaming on his skin. He gasped, vibrating in place as his pleasure gripped him. The wet splash of come inside Steve, so alien and so warm, prodded some feral part of him that wanted Bucky to own him, to belong to his omega so wholly.  


As though reading his mind, Bucky pulled out and bent over Steve, kissing the tooth-marks in his neck and lapping over them as though they were fresh.   


They kissed, and Bucky collapsed at Steve’s side, burying his nose beneath Steve’s jaw to scent to his heart’s content. Steve rested his hand on Bucky’s belly, petting.   


For a long time, this was how they laid, tangled and exhausted but so, so full.   


“Holy shit,” Bucky finally said, “That was awesome.”  


Steve rumble-purred his agreement, too fucked out to form words.  


Bucky heaved a sigh and added, “We should really shower, though.”


	18. You Make Me Stronger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. Full disclosure: my stepdad is in the hospital and will likely be gone by the end of this week. I may be able to write -- as it's giving me a sense of some normalcy -- or I may not. Thank you for being patient with me while my family goes through this. 
> 
> And thank you to the good people on the Steve/Bucky discord, without whom a chapter would not have happened so quickly.

**Chapter Eighteen**

**Chapter Track: Deep Water – American Authors**

**_You Make Me Stronger_ **

  


No sooner had Bucky and Steve returned from a (slightly frisky) shower did Steve’s phone ring. The image of Sarah Rogers smiling into a Christmas present – a portrait of Joe that Steve rendered in loving strokes of oil paint – gazed up at them from the bedside table.  


“Ha! Your mom wants to talk to you, nerd,” Bucky crowed, reaching for fresh clothes, rather than the bunched-up mess abandoned on the mussed bed and floors below.  


While Steve reached to unplug his StarkPhone from its charger, chest dripping moisture, Bucky stripped the bed. This ritual had become regular practice for them. Between Bucky’s voracious second-trimester libido and their combined desire to explore each other’s bodies from tip to toe, there’d been a lot of sex. _A lot_ of sex. The beard burn between Bucky’s thighs might never disappear, and he’d made his peace with that. They purchased several new sets of bedsheets to combat the demand of their appetites, which Bucky also made his peace with, if only because he and Steve traded off paying for them.  


Bucky pointedly did not eavesdrop as Steve slid to answer his mother with a soft smile and a, “Hi, Mom,” and hefted the sheets and bedspread to the compact washer and dryer in the stubby hallway that opened to the apartment’s bedrooms. He shoved the linens in and poured detergent and fabric softener over them, probably not to Steve’s standards, but Steve wasn’t there to backseat launder, was he?  


“That sounds great, mom,” Steve was saying, when Bucky returned to the bedroom with fresh sheets and a new comforter (deep blue; “Soft for Omega Nesting”, or so the package had advertised). Steve nodded, as though his mother could see him, hitching the towel up around his waist before he continued, “Okay, we’ll see you then. Love you, Mom. Of course, I’ll tell him. Bye.”  


Steve set the StarkPhone back down onto the bedside table and said, “Mom’s coming over for dinner on Friday. She told me to tell you that she loves you.”  


Unconcerned with modesty, Steve dropped his towel on the floor and followed Bucky’s lead, finding new pajamas rather than air out the pre-sexcapades clothing. Bucky admired Steve’s ass, pink from the heat of the shower and the earlier attention paid to it, before Steve tragically hiked a pair of plaid pajamas over the swell. He swept back to Bucky bare-chested, scooped him close with an arm around his waist, and kissed him hard.  


“You know I love you, right?” asked Steve.  


Bucky bit down the giddy grin that sometimes found him when Steve got sappy and replied, “You might have mentioned it.”  


“Tangentially related: is my ass supposed to be this sore?” Steve wanted to know.  


Bucky laughed a little and swatted at him. He said, “Well, that was your first rodeo. And yeah, sorta. I probably get less sore than you do, but when you really give it to me...”  


A blush crept from Steve’s ears to his chest, but his face was all Dumb Pleased Alpha, and a smug scent wafted through the crisp clean of his body wash.  


“Don’t get me started on the beard burn, though,” Bucky said, “Now that’s an experience.”

**

A chill swept through Brooklyn on the night that Sarah would come for dinner. Bucky and Steve holed up in the apartment and sipped at old-fashioned hot-chocolates while they prepared dinner. Since Bucky’s more recent cravings dictated spicy food, the meal du jour was curry soup with fresh-baked bread.  


While Steve bundled up in sweatpants, wool socks, and a fuzzy hoodie, the cold in the air evaded Bucky’s body, which instead decided to roast him alive. He wore not winter clothes, but a stretched-out muscle shirt of Steve’s and a pair of Valentine’s Day themed boxer briefs patterned in kiss-marks.  


“Promise me you’ll put on pants before my mom gets here,” Steve said.  


Bucky whined, but grumbled an agreement. He complained, “Why am I so hot? It’s like Fuck It degrees outside. Shouldn’t this asshole be sucking up the heat, not making more of it?” Bucky made a cutting gesture at Henry, who’d been throwing a rave in his uterus all damn day, on top of jacking up Bucky’s ambient temperate to a million.  


At least, tonight, excitement at seeing Sarah broke through Bucky’s moodiness, which over the course of the last week bumped up from a resting five out of ten to a solid twelve. He snapped at Steve more times than he cared to count, and although Bucky liked to believe he’d been contrite in his apologies, he sensed Steve’s exasperation at the onslaught of hormonal rage.  


At the knock at the apartment door, Bucky bolted from the kitchen to the bedroom, where he begrudgingly shimmied into a pair of his preggo jeans and slapped on one of Steve’s band t-shirts, unwilling to be anything but barefoot under the oppressive hormonal heat that had become pedestrian in the last handful of days. He’d even googled pregnancy heats, finding that they were about as common as vibranium – which was to say not common at all. Unholy, inexplicable swerves of temperature, however, plagued poor, pregnant omegas and betas – but especially omegas.  


The murmur of voices crackled from the other side of the bedroom door. Bucky rested his hand on the doorknob, his heart in his throat. He hadn’t seen Sarah for almost two years, now. He didn’t know how much she knew about Brock. He doubted Steve spilled any of his secrets, but Bucky’s absence wore on Steve, and he would have spoken to his mom about it. Steve told his mom almost everything – she never gave him a reason to hide things from her, and gave every reason to confide in her.  


People called Steve a Mama’s Boy more than once in his life, and Steve always shrugged it off with a, “Yeah, so what? I love my mom. Don’t you love yours?”  


_This is Sarah_ , Bucky reasoned. _She’s not going to be mad at you for being falling for Brock’s shit._  


Steve wasn’t mad at Bucky for Brock. Sarah wouldn’t be either.  


Still, nerves stopped him up and stuttered in his heart as he turned the knob and stepped out to the hallway.  


Sarah, though a small woman, stood tall with a straight back. Before puberty, Steve looked a whole lot like his mom. He still did, though being muscle-bound and six-foot-two shrunk some of the resemblance they’d shared when Steve’s bones stuck out of his skin and his head came up to Bucky’s shoulders. She measured up to a crisp five-foot-three, her face pixie-like and thin, eyes kind and creased with smile lines. A puffy winter coat swallowed her small frame, while a scrunchie kept her gray-blonde hair from falling into her eyes. Blue-green eyes, same as Steve.  


Her face melted into a smile when Bucky padded into the living room, feeling huge and unwieldy as he did. Sarah opened her arms with a warm, “Bucky, honey, c’mere.”  


Bucky went and didn’t even try to resist tucking his nose into her neck, breathing in the omega scent almost as familiar as his father’s. For a long time, Sarah held him there, rocking him. She ran her fingers through Bucky’s hair and tucked a lock behind his ear before at last she pulled away.  


“So, tell me everything,” she said, squeezing his arm, “Steve says you two are having a son, and that he has a name, but he wouldn’t tell me what it is. Are you keeping it secret? Or is Nana Rogers allowed to know?”  


Steve and Bucky exchanged a glance: _I’m okay if you are._  


“Henry,” answered Bucky, “Henry Joseph Barnes-Rogers.”  


Sarah’s breath fluttered at _Joseph_. Her eyes shone with moisture, but her smile grew ever-larger. “You boys,” she said, “You really know how to make an old woman cry.”  


“Mom, you’re only fifty,” Steve protested, “That’s not old.”  


While Steve finished up dinner, Bucky led Sarah through the changes in the apartment since her last visit. He showed her the nest that he and Steve created with airy pride in his heart, and the boxes of unassembled nursery furniture where they leaned against the living room wall in an untidy heap.  


“I don’t supposed there’s a reason you two haven’t bothered to put together your expensive nursery furniture, is there?” Sarah asked, one brow high.  


Bucky smiled and beckoned her to follow him to the former guest room. The mural, while incomplete, rolled over two out of four walls. The dragon stretched across the far right corner of the room, its head lowered beneath the window that looked out to the adjacent apartment building. Steve insisted the detail work wasn’t done, but to Bucky’s untrained eye, the beauty already struck. He walked into this room and a fantasy land swallowed him whole.  


He couldn’t wait to see what the nursery would look like once they got their shit together.  


“Wow,” breathed Sarah, “Just wow. This is something else. Our Henry is going to love it.”  


Our Henry.  


The flicking sensation of Henry wriggling around popped inside Bucky. He sidled up to where Sarah stood in the center of the room and asked, “He’s kicking. You wanna feel?” He patted his belly, inviting, and Sarah laid her hand against the t-shirt, seeking.  


Joy unfolded on her face. She said, “He’s so active.”  


“Tell me about it,” Bucky complained, “All day, Sarah. He’s been like this all fuc- dang day. He won’t -”  


“Hey, dinner’s ready!” Steve called from the kitchen.  


The tangy scent of curry sizzled in the air, and the heat of the kitchen enveloped them. Bucky longed for a moment that shucking off his jeans wouldn’t be considered bad behavior in the company of his mother-in-law, but at least the curry soup would placate Henry, preferably into calming the fuck down and giving Bucky’s bladder a rest. He helped himself to huge bowl and let thick pats of butter melt into the still-steaming surface of Steve’s fresh, homemade bread.  


Bucky could make the same bread; Sarah taught them both how, but there was something to be said about his alpha doing it for him. Watching his alpha knead dough and tenderly care for it stirred something primal in Bucky’s insides, the part that craved a handsome provider, being handsome while he provided things.  


The food exceeded Bucky’s expectations, but then, Steve’s efforts often did. Bucky crammed his first helping into his mouth with gleeful abandon, and happily waddled back for seconds before Steve and Sarah even made it through their first. Sarah understood, of course, and Steve radiated his pleased alpha smell, happy to have fed his omega.  


Later, after Bucky plowed through a bag of Bit-O-Honey by himself and Steve and Sarah tucked into a cream cheese and Jell-O concoction of Sarah’s, Steve insisted Sarah stay the night. Bucky offered her their bed – he and Steve could swing sleeping in the nest; they’d napped in it together easily enough before – but Sarah waved her hand and replied that she didn’t mind taking the couch.  


“Sorry about stealing your guest bed,” Bucky said.  


Sarah gestured to Henry and replied, “There’s somebody who needs it more.”  


“Well,” Bucky said back, “I’m sorry he kicked you out before he’s even born.”  


Sarah just laughed, kissed both their heads like they were kids again, and took to the bathroom to change into a set of flannel pajamas patterned in cats and thick socks to combat the edge of winter in the air.  


The easy sense of family saturated the apartment that night, spanning from Sarah curled up on their couch under three layers of blankets, to the mural taking shape in the room that would become the nursery, to the Alpha tucked against Bucky, who lay miserably over the blanket on the bed in his milk-binder and boxer briefs, while Steve snuggled under it.  


How strange Bucky felt being absorbed back into a world that lay out of his reach for a year and a half. Brock stood between him and those that loved him, and Bucky feared he might always. His brain insisted that overbearing alpha body still stood as a barrier, blocking him from the light of his family, his friends, his alpha.  


On nights like this, the worry oozed out, like draining an infected wound.  


They could do this. Bucky allowed hope into his brain, more and more, opened the curtains that blacked out the good. Sarah on the couch. Alpha on his six. Son inside him. Dragon in the nursery.  


He could do this.

**

Several nights later, Steve and Bucky followed what had become their night-time routine: they ate dinner, takeout and Steve’s cooking equal contributors to the table. Bucky let Steve bracket his body in the nest while they watched Cosmos, or wrapped his body into a blanket burrito while Steve finished a work project on his StarkPad. They told each other they would be going to bed, but undressing to climb into pajamas devolved into naked kissing which devolved into sex which devolved into a shower and some more sex. Then they slept in earnest, Steve draped over Bucky’s back like a rumbling, purring guardian of his honor.  


This night fell into that pattern until Bucky closed his eyes.  


The nightmares he returned with when he lost his arm were hazy, a haphazard quilt of impressions. Heat and sun soaked unsuspecting skin. Non-noise buzzed in his ears and silenced the voices of the others. Pain lit up his side, and he’d wake breathless and sweating, tangled in his sheets. Back then, he’d had his parents. His mother, all alpha, stood vigil in his bedroom doorway while his father sat beside him, stroking back Bucky’s then-short hair, his omega scent easing Bucky back into the real world.  


The nightmare that struck this night disregarded old terrors, a boggart that shed the skin of a blazing Iraqi afternoon and slid into the coat of something closer.  


Bucky stepped into a familiar-unfamiliar room. The white walls and minimalist furniture of the apartment he shared with Brock never welcomed him. Bucky grew up in the chaos of a lived-in, middle-class home, in furniture used to the brink, using electronics not quite top-of-the-line, laying his head on the same Star Wars sheets he’d had since he was seven years old. Brock didn’t own keepsakes and didn’t want them in his home – _his territory,_ he called it.  


His territory, his omega, his television – they all fell into one column in Brock’s mind: his property.  


Being back in that place sent Bucky’s heart out of step. The glass shelves of unread books bought strategically to match the muted grays and whites of the living room looked down their nose at him. The fake plants that required no care mocked each step he took into this place. Not a hair lay out of place.  


All that stood out in Brock’s apartment was Bucky.  


“What are you doing here?”  


Bucky swung on his heel. Brock slouched against the door to the bedroom they used to share, feet bare, body a crude mimic of relaxation while the vile scent of alpha aggression poured from him in a great storm. That scent promised pain. That scent threatened hurt.  


While the stench of Brock’s aggression foretold a grim future, Bucky couldn’t move fast enough to avoid it. Now, his belly slowed him, so much rounder and bigger than the last time that he saw his ex-alpha’s face. What once struck Bucky as handsomeness now occurred to him as cruelty. The way that Brock’s lips cocked up one side of his mouth didn’t speak of confidence, but of meanness.  


“I’m gonna ask you one more time,” Brock said, “What are you doing here?”  


The reality of the situation knocked the air from Bucky’s lungs. He didn’t know how or why he was in Brock’s apartment, but he was in Brock’s apartment with _Henry_. Of all the things in all the world, Bucky wanted to protect his son most. This baby was precious to him, small and perfect, but so, so vulnerable. Sweat dripped from Bucky’s neck down his back, sticking his t-shirt to his skin.  


“I don’t know,” he answered, hand splayed over his belly like a shield. His bionic prosthesis was missing, which didn’t surprise him. He never could have it in this place.  


“You don’t know?” Brock lifted his shoulder from the door frame and sidled across the living room.  


Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat and took a half-step back. Brock paced forward faster, and Bucky panicked. He tried pacing back, tried to turn tail and run, but the backs of his knees collided with the stupid chair he’d always hated, the orange square thrown into the colorless din for “a splash of color.”  


Bucky toppled over and Brock closed in.  


“You think you can bring that thing into my territory?” Brock demanded, “I told you what was going to happen. I told you, that thing dies, or you do. But you didn’t listen, did you? All I want in my life is a little order. We could all use a little more order.”  


Brock towered over him, and under the cloying dose of alpha cologne, the threat of violence spiraled from every line of his body.  


Bucky scooted back on the floor. Moisture gathered at his temples. His breath came in short bursts as his mind reeled. He knew how this ended. He could try to run. He could try to hide. He’d done both. He made it out their front door and to the stairs, once, before Brock boxed him and spoke soft words about not wanting to _make a scene_. Bucky hid in their closet, but Brock would haul him out.  


Only one time did Henry come into play, when he was little more than a cluster of cells, was not quite Bucky’s baby but the promise thereof. Now he was big and danced on his dad’s bladder. Now he kicked Steve in the face when Steve rested his cheek on Bucky’s belly. Now he had a bedroom that looked like another world and a tiny skeleton outfit wrapped in tissue paper at the bottom of the closet.  


“I told you,” said Brock, and with a theatrical sigh, shook his head. He repeated, “I told you. I didn’t want to do this. But you? You’re out of line.”  


Brock wound up his fist and Bucky scrambled back against the wall. He curled into a protective shell around his belly. He braced his body for the blow, terror coursing through him, fear-sweat soaking his clothes, and -  


_Buck, sweetheart._  


Bucky jerked up his head. Brock growled, a warning, and -  


_Sweetheart, wake up._  


Bucky bolted to sitting, the air knocked from his body. He panted, eyes darting from corner to corner of the dark room that surrounded him. Through the window the light of a Brooklyn night washed over the bedroom, orange-ish, reflecting off the glass over Joe Rogers’ portrait where it sat on the dresser. Beside him, Steve sat with several inches of space between them. When he reached out to touch Bucky’s shoulder, Bucky flinched away, full-body and unexpected.  


Steve’s face crumpled.  


“You’re safe, Bucky,” he rumbled, voice low and sleepy, “You’re home. You’re okay. You’re both okay.” He didn’t make another move to put his hands on Bucky, but let one palm hover in the air – like Bucky was one of the velociraptors in Jurassic World. It might have been funny were Bucky’s brain not two actual steps away from being a terrified dinosaur.  


His gaze fell to his belly. Twenty-eight weeks now. He read only hours ago that Henry was now the size of a large eggplant, not that Bucky had ever gotten close enough to an eggplant to determine the size of it.  


The alpha scent that lived in this room and soaked these sheets smelled nothing like Brock’s horrible, burnt-rubber tone of aggression. He masked it with expensive pheromone cologne, concoctions that shifted angry alpha scent to more palatable levels. The advertisements promised to entice omegas, but Bucky wondered if entice wasn’t just a fancy word for _trick._  


Steve’s aroma never was anything like that. Bucky hesitated to apply the word “mild” to the scent, because it was strong and certain and present, but few of the earmarks of angry alpha existed in the woodsy-rainy smell of him. Many alphas smelled sharp, like something burning, or something being forged. Not Steve – never Steve. His anger scented like a bonfire – something perhaps dangerous, but also something that could be warm and good. Steve channeled his anger to good.  


Bucky struggled to remember that, sometimes.  


When Bucky dipped forward and tucked his body to Steve’s chest, Steve sagged in relief over him. He rubbed a palm up and down Bucky’s spine and with the other hand drew Bucky’s nose against his neck, to the textured loop of the mating bite.  


“What happened?” asked Steve. Bucky could feel his voice as he spoke, vibrating in his chest.  


“I was back in Brock’s apartment,” Bucky answered.  


At the name, Steve’s muscles tensed, but he didn’t stop the rhythm of his hand on Bucky’s back, and he didn’t smell angry. He didn’t speak; instead, he waited for Bucky to find his voice and continue.  


“It wasn’t much different than it ever was,” Bucky explained, “I was just. You know. This pregnant. And he was gonna hurt me and the kid both.”  


Only then did Steve’s anger flare. The barest, most dangerous hint of a growl rolled out of him.  


Bucky surprised himself. He didn’t jerk away and old fears in him didn’t spike. This was the alpha anger that protected their baby, not the alpha anger that broke Bucky’s jaw and left bruises on his ribs. He knew, all at once and suddenly, that Steve would absolutely do whatever he had to do to ensure the safety of the kiddo. If he had to rip Brock to shreds, he would.  


Despite the edge of realness to Bucky’s nightmare, he doubted the occasion would come when Steve would need to tear Brock limb from limb for Henry’s sake, but knowing he’d do it – well.  


There was something to be said about feeling so wholly safe with an alpha.  


Grateful and stupid with love, Bucky tipped his head up to catch Steve’s lips with his. A soft, startled noise put a stop to Steve’s growl, and he kissed back, palm shifting from Bucky’s back to cup his face. The beard scratched against Bucky’s skin, but that prickle of sensation grounded him. His nightmares couldn’t touch him here, wrapped in the arms of his best friend in the whole world. Steve nipped at Bucky’s lower lip, playful, eyes dancing with mirth when Bucky pulled back to roll his eyes at him.  


To hell with Brock and his order. Here, chaos surrounded Bucky on all sides – and what a wonderful chaos it was.  


“Thank you,” Bucky said.  


“For what?” asked Steve.  


“Bein’ you.”  


A shit-eating grin split Steve’s face wide open. He said, “Ha, you sappy little shit!”  


Bucky smacked Steve’s arm, but then ducked in for another hug.  


Steve Rogers was the most beautiful kind of chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **UPDATE 5-8-2019** I would like to finish this story, but I have a lot of weird emotions surrounding it. My stepdad passed the day after I posted this chapter, and for whatever reason, my brain has decided to associate this fic with the loss. 
> 
> I’m not going to be updating in the near future, as I’m actually working on an original novel at the moment, but if you want to keep up with my stucky shitposting and talking about writing my book, you can find me on Twitter @thepinupchemist. 
> 
> Thank you for understanding! ❤️ I appreciate your love and support.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to follow me on tumblr, you can find me at sergeantscarlett.tumblr!


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